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Title: The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,
Volume 02

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GERMAN
CLASSICS OF THE NINETEENTH AND TWENTIETH CENTURIES,
VOLUME 02 ***

VOLUME II

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

THE GERMAN CLASSICS

MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN LITERATURE

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

IN TWENTY VOLUMES
ILLUSTRATED

1914

VOLUME II

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II

INTRODUCTION TO THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
By Calvin Thomas

THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Translated by James Anthony Froude and R. Dillon Boylan

SHAKESPEARE AND AGAIN SHAKESPEARE.
Translated by Julia Franklin

ORATION ON WIELAND.
Translated by Louis H. Gray

THE PEDAGOGIC PROVINCE (from "Wilhelm Meister's Travels").
Translated by R. Dillon Boylan

WINCKELMANN AND HIS AGE.
Translated by George Krielin

MAXIMS AND REFLECTIONS.
Translated by Bailey Saunders

ECKERMANN'S CONVERSATION WITH GOETHE.
Translated by John Oxenford

GOETHE'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH WILHELM VON
HUMBOLDT AND HIS WIFE.
Translated by Louis H. Gray

GOETHE'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH K. F. ZELTER.
Translated by Frances H. King

ILLUSTRATIONS—VOLUME II

Capri

Edward reading aloud to Charlotte and the Captain

Charlotte receives Ottilie. By P. Grotjohann

Edward and Ottilie. By P. Grotjohann

Edward, Charlotte, Ottilie and the Captain discuss the new plan
of the house. By Franz Simm

Ottilie examines Edward's Presents. By P Grotjohann

Luciana posing as Queen Artemisia. By P. Grotjohann

Ottilie. By Wilhelm von Kaulbach

The Old Theatre, Weimar. By Peter Woltze

Martin Wieland. By E. Hader

Princess Amalia

Winckelmann

Weimar seen from the North

Goethe and his Secretary. By Johann Josef Schmeller

Goethe's Study

The Garden at Goethe's City House, Weimar. By Peter Woltze

Schiller's Garden House at Jena. Drawing by Goethe

The float at Jena. Drawing by Goethe

View into the Saale Valley near Jena. Drawing by Goethe

K.F. Zelter

INTRODUCTION TO THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES

In the spring of the year 1807 Goethe began work on the second part of
Wilhelm Meister. He had no very definite plot in view, but proposed to
make room for a number of short stories, all relating to the subject of
renunciation, which was to be the central theme of the Wanderjahre. In the
course of the summer, while he was taking the waters at Karlsbad, two or
three of the stories were written. The following spring he set about
elaborating another tale of renunciation, the idea of which had occurred to
him some time before. But somehow it refused to be confined within the
limits of a novelette. As he proceeded the matter grew apace, until it finally
developed into the novel which was given to the world in 1809 under the
title of The Elective Affinities.

When that which should be a short story is expanded into a novel one can
usually detect the padding and the embroidery. So it is certainly in this case.

Those long descriptions of landscape-gardening; the copious extracts from
Ottilie's diary, containing many thoughts which would hardly have entered
the head of such a girl; the pages given to subordinate characters, whose
comings and goings have no very obvious connection with the story,—all
these retard the narrative and tend to hide the essential idea. The strange
title, too, has served to divert attention from the real centre of gravity. Had
the tale been called, say, "Ottilie's Expiation," there would have been less
room for misunderstanding and irrelevant criticism; there would have been
less concern over the moral, and more over the artistic, aspect of the story.

What then was the essential idea? Simply to describe a peculiar tragedy
resulting from the invasion of the marriage relation by lawless passion. As
for the title, it should be remembered that there was just then a tendency to
look for curious analogies between physical law and the operations of the
human mind. Great interest was felt in suggestion, occult influence, and all
that sort of thing. Goethe himself had lately been lecturing on magnetism.
He had also observed, as no one can fail to observe, that the sexual
attraction sometimes seems to act like chemical affinity: it breaks up old
unions, forms new combinations, destroys pre-existing bodies, as if it were
a law that must work itself out, whatever the consequences. Such a process
will now and then defy prudence, self-respect, duty, even religion,—going
its way like a blind and ruthless law of physics. But if this is to happen the
recombining elements must, of course, have each its specific character; else
there is no affinity and no tragedy.

It is no part of the analogy that the pressure of sex is always and by its
very nature like the attraction of atoms. Aside from the fact that character
consists largely in the steady inhibition of instinct and passion by the will,
there is this momentous difference between atoms or molecules, on the one
hand, and souls on the other: the character of the atom or molecule is
constant, that of the soul is highly variable. There is no room here for

remarks on free will and determinism; suffice it to say that Goethe does not
preach any doctrine of mechanical determinism in human relations. The
scientific analogy must not be pressed too hard. It is really not important,
since after all nothing turns on it. Whatever interest the novel has it would
have if all reference to chemistry had been omitted. Goethe's thesis, if he
can be said to have one, is simply that character is fate.

He imagines a middle-aged man and woman, Edward and Charlotte, who
are, to all seeming, happily united in marriage. Each has been married
before to an unloved mate who has conveniently died, leaving them both
free to yield to the gentle pull of long-past youthful attachment. Their
feeling for each other is only a mild friendship, but that does not appear to
augur ill, since they are well-to-do, and their fine estate offers them both a
plenty of interesting work. Edward has a highly esteemed friend called the
Captain, who is for the moment without suitable employment for his ability
and energy. Edward can give him just the needed work, with great
advantage to the property, and would like to do so. Charlotte fears that the
presence of the Captain may disturb their pleasant idyl, but finally yields.
She herself has a niece, Ottilie, a beautiful girl whom no one understands
and who is not doing well at her boarding-school. Charlotte would like to
have the girl under her own care. After much debate the pair take both the
Captain and Ottilie into their spacious castle.

And now the elective affinity begins to do its disastrous work. Edward,
who has always indulged himself in every whim and has no other standard
of conduct, falls madly in love with the charming Ottilie, who has a passion
for making herself useful and serving everybody. She adapts herself to
Edward, fails to see what a shabby specimen of a man he really is, humors
his whims, and worships him—at first in an innocent girlish way. Charlotte
is not long in discovering that the Captain is a much better man than her
husband; she loves him, but within the limits of wifely duty. In the vulgar

world of prose such a tangle could be most easily straightened out by
divorce and remarriage. This is what Edward proposes and tries to bring
about. The others are almost won over to this solution when the event
happens that precipitates the tragedy: the child of Edward and Charlotte is
accidentally drowned by Ottilie's carelessness.

It is a very dubious link in Goethe's fiction that this child, while the
genuine offspring of Edward and Charlotte, has the features of Ottilie and
the Captain. From the moment of the drowning Ottilie is a changed being.
Her character quickly matures; like a wakened sleep-walker she sees what a
dangerous path she has been treading. She feels that marriage with Edward
would be a crime. She resists his passionate appeals, and her remorse takes
on a morbid tinge. It becomes a fixed idea. Happiness is not for her. She
must renounce it all. She must atone—atone—for her awful sin. For a
moment they plan to send her back to school, but she cannot tear herself
away from Edward's sinister presence. At last she refuses food and
gradually starves herself to death. The wretched Edward does likewise.

Any just appreciation of Goethe's art in The Elective Affinities must begin
by recognizing that it is about Ottilie. For her sake the book was written. It
is a study of a delicately organized virgin soul caught in the meshes of an
ignoble fate and beating its wings in hopeless misery until death ends the
struggle. The other characters are ordinary people: Charlotte and the
Captain ordinary in their good sense and self-control, Edward ordinary in
his moral flabbiness and his foolish infatuation. His death, to be sure, is
unthinkable for such a man and does but testify to the unearthly attraction
with which the girl is invested by Goethe's art. The figure of Ottilie, like
that of her spiritual sister Mignon, is irradiated by a light that never was on
sea or land. She is a creature of romance, and we learn without much
surprise that her dead body performs miracles. One is reminded of that
medieval lady who is doomed to eat the heart of her crusading lover and

then refuses all other food and dies. That Edward is quite unworthy of the
girl's love, that the death of the child is no sufficient reason for her morbid
remorse, is quite immaterial, since at the end of the tale we are no longer in
the realm of normal psychology. A season of dreamy happiness, as she
moves about in a world unrealized; then a terrible shock, and after that,
remorse, renunciation, hopelessness, the will to die. Such is the logic of the
tale.

THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES

TRANSLATED BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE AND R. DILLON
BOYLAN

PART I

CHAPTER I

Edward—so we shall call a wealthy nobleman in the prime of life—had
been spending several hours of a fine April morning in his nursery-garden,
budding the stems of some young trees with cuttings which had been
recently sent to him.

He had finished what he was about, and having laid his tools together in
their box, was complacently surveying his work, when the gardener came
up and complimented his master on his industry.

"Have you seen my wife anywhere?" inquired Edward, as he moved to
go away.

"My lady is alone yonder in the new grounds," said the man; "the
summer-house which she has been making on the rock over against the
castle is finished today, and really it is beautiful. It cannot fail to please

your grace. The view from it is perfect:—the village at your feet; a little to
your right the church, with its tower, which you can just see over; and
directly opposite you, the castle and the garden."

"Quite true," replied Edward; "I can see the people at work a few steps
from where I am standing."

"And then, to the right of the church again," continued the gardener, "is
the opening of the valley; and you look along over a range of wood and
meadow far into the distance. The steps up the rock, too, are excellently
arranged. My gracious lady understands these things; it is a pleasure to
work under her."

"Go to her," said Edward, "and desire her to be so good as to wait for me
there. Tell her I wish to see this new creation of hers, and enjoy it with her."

The gardener went rapidly off, and Edward soon followed. Descending
the terrace, and stopping as he passed to look into the hot-houses and the
forcing-pits, he came presently to the stream, and thence, over a narrow
bridge, to a place where the walk leading to the summer-house branched off
in two directions. One path led across the churchyard, immediately up the
face of the rock. The other, into which he struck, wound away to the left,
with a more gradual ascent, through a pretty shrubbery. Where the two
paths joined again, a seat had been made, where he stopped a few moments
to rest; and then, following the now single road, he found himself, after
scrambling along among steps and slopes of all sorts and kinds, conducted
at last through a narrow more or less steep outlet to the summer-house.

Charlotte was standing at the door to receive her husband. She made him
sit down where, without moving, he could command a view of the different
landscapes through the door and window—these serving as frames, in
which they were set like pictures. Spring was coming on; a rich, beautiful

life would soon everywhere be bursting; and Edward spoke of it with
delight.

"There is only one thing which I should observe," he added, "the
summer-house itself is rather small."

"It is large enough for you and me, at any rate," answered Charlotte.

"Certainly," said Edward; "there is room for a third, too, easily."

"Of course; and for a fourth also," replied Charlotte. "For larger parties
we can contrive other places."

"Now that we are here by ourselves, with no one to disturb us, and in
such a pleasant mood," said Edward, "it is a good opportunity for me to tell
you that I have for some time had something on my mind, about which I
have wished to speak to you, but have never been able to muster up my
courage."

"I have observed that there has been something of the sort," said
Charlotte.

"And even now," Edward went on, "if it were not for a letter which the
post brought me this morning, and which obliges me to come to some
resolution today, I should very likely have still kept it to myself."

"What is it, then" asked Charlotte, turning affectionately toward him.

"It concerns our friend the Captain," answered Edward; "you know the
unfortunate position in which he, like many others, is placed. It is through
no fault of his own; but you may imagine how painful it must be for a
person with his knowledge and talents and accomplishments, to find

himself without employment. I—I will not hesitate any longer with what I
am wishing for him. I should like to have him here with us for a time."

"We must think about that," replied Charlotte; "it should be considered on
more sides than one."

"I am quite ready to tell you what I have in view," returned Edward.
"Through his last letters there is a prevailing tone of despondency; not that
he is really in any want. He knows thoroughly well how to limit his
expenses; and I have taken care for everything absolutely necessary. It is no
distress to him to accept obligations from me; all our lives we have been in
the habit of borrowing from and lending to each other; and we could not
tell, if we would, how our debtor and creditor account stands. It is being
without occupation which is really fretting him. The many accomplishments
which he has cultivated in himself, it is his only pleasure—indeed, it is his
passion—to be daily and hourly exercising for the benefit of others. And
now, to sit still, with his arms folded; or to go on studying, acquiring, and
acquiring, when he can make no use of what he already possesses;—my
dear creature, it is a painful situation; and alone as he is, he feels it doubly
and trebly."

"But I thought," said Charlotte, "that he had had offers from many
different quarters. I myself wrote to numbers of my own friends, male and
female, for him; and, as I have reason to believe, not without effect."

"It is true," replied Edward; "but these very offers—these various
proposals—have only caused him fresh embarrassment. Not one of them is
at all suitable to such a person as he is. He would have nothing to do; he
would have to sacrifice himself, his time, his purposes, his whole method of
life; and to that he cannot bring himself. The more I think of it all, the more
I feel about it, and the more anxious I am to see him here with us."

"It is very beautiful and amiable in you," answered Charlotte, "to enter
with so much sympathy into your friend's position; only you must allow me
to ask you to think of yourself and of me, as well."

"I have done that," replied Edward. "For ourselves, we can have nothing
to expect from his presence with us, except pleasure and advantage. I will
say nothing of the expense. In any case, if he came to us, it would be but
small; and you know he will be of no inconvenience to us at all. He can
have his own rooms in the right wing of the castle, and everything else can
be arranged as simply as possible. What shall we not be thus doing for him!
and how agreeable and how profitable may not his society prove to us! I
have long been wishing for a plan of the property and the grounds. He will
see to it, and get it made. You intend yourself to take the management of the
estate, as soon as our present steward's term is expired; and that, you know,
is a serious thing. His various information will be of immense benefit to us;
I feel only too acutely how much I require a person of this kind. The
country people have knowledge enough, but their way of imparting it is
confused, and not always honest. The students from the towns and
universities are sufficiently clever and orderly, but they are deficient in
personal experience. From my friend, I can promise myself both knowledge
and method, and hundreds of other circumstances I can easily conceive
arising, affecting you as well as me, and from which I can foresee
innumerable advantages. Thank you for so patiently listening to me. Now,
do you say what you think, and say it out freely and fully; I will not
interrupt you."

"Very well," replied Charlotte; "I will begin at once with a general
observation. Men think most of the immediate—the present; and rightly,
their calling being to do and to work; women, on the other hand, more of
how things hang together in life; and that rightly too, because their destiny
—the destiny of their families—is bound up in this interdependence, and it

is exactly this which it is their mission to promote. So now let us cast a
glance at our present and our past life; and you will acknowledge that the
invitation of the Captain does not fall in so entirely with our purposes, our
plans, and our arrangements. I will go back to those happy days of our
earliest intercourse. We loved each other, young as we then were, with all
our hearts. We were parted: you from me—your father, from an insatiable
desire of wealth, choosing to marry you to an elderly and rich lady; I from
you, having to give my hand, without any especial motive, to an excellent
man, whom I respected, if I did not love. We became again free—you first,
your poor mother at the same time leaving you in possession of your large
fortune; I later, just at the time when you returned from abroad. So we met
once more. We spoke of the past; we could enjoy and love the recollection
of it; we might have been contented, in each other's society, to leave things
as they were. You were urgent for our marriage. I at first hesitated. We were
about the same age; but I as a woman had grown older than you as a man.
At last I could not refuse you what you seemed to think the one thing you
cared for. All the discomfort which you had ever experienced, at court, in
the army, or in traveling, you were to recover from at my side; you would
settle down and enjoy life; but only with me for your companion. I settled
my daughter at a school, where she could be more completely educated than
would be possible in the retirement of the country; and I placed my niece
Ottilie there with her as well, who, perhaps, would have grown up better at
home with me, under my own care. This was done with your consent,
merely that we might have our own lives to ourselves—merely that we
might enjoy undisturbed our so-long-wished-for, so-long-delayed
happiness. We came here and settled ourselves. I undertook the domestic
part of the ménage, you the out-of-doors and the general control. My own
principle has been to meet your wishes in everything, to live only for you.
At least, let us give ourselves a fair trial how far in this way we can be
enough for each other."

"Since the interdependence of things, as you call it, is your especial
element," replied Edward, "one should either never listen to any of your
trains of reasoning, or make up one's mind to allow you to be in the right;
and, indeed, you have been in the right up to the present day. The
foundation which we have hitherto been laying for ourselves, is of the true,
sound sort; only, are we to build nothing upon it? is nothing to be developed
out of it? All the work we have done—I in the garden, you in the park—is it
all only for a pair of hermits?"

"Well, well," replied Charlotte, "very well. What we have to look to is,
that we introduce no alien element, nothing which shall cross or obstruct us.
Remember, our plans, even those which only concern our amusements,
depend mainly on our being together. You were to read to me, in
consecutive order, the journal which you made when you were abroad. You
were to take the opportunity of arranging it, putting all the loose matter
connected with it in its place; and with me to work with you and help you,
out of these invaluable but chaotic leaves and sheets to put together a
complete thing, which should give pleasure to ourselves and to others. I
promised to assist you in transcribing; and we thought it would be so
pleasant, so delightful, so charming, to travel over in recollection the world
which we were unable to see together. The beginning is already made.
Then, in the evenings, you have taken up your flute again, accompanying
me on the piano, while of visits backwards and forwards among the
neighborhood, there is abundance. For my part, I have been promising
myself out of all this the first really happy summer I have ever thought to
spend in my life."

"Only I cannot see," replied Edward, rubbing his forehead, "how, through
every bit of this which you have been so sweetly and so sensibly laying
before me, the Captain's presence can be any interruption; I should rather
have thought it would give it all fresh zest and life. He was my companion

during a part of my travels. He made many observations from a different
point of view from mine. We can put it all together, and so make a
charmingly complete work of it."

"Well, then, I will acknowledge openly," answered Charlotte, with some
impatience, "my feeling is against this plan. I have an instinct which tells
me no good will come of it."

"You women are invincible in this way," replied Edward. "You are so
sensible, that there is no answering you, then so affectionate, that one is
glad to give way to you; full of feelings, which one cannot wound, and full
of forebodings, which terrify one."

"I am not superstitious," said Charlotte; "and I care nothing for these dim
sensations, merely as such; but in general they are the result of unconscious
recollections of happy or unhappy consequences, which we have
experienced as following on our own or others' actions. Nothing is of
greater moment, in any state of things, than the intervention of a third
person. I have seen friends, brothers and sisters, lovers, husbands and
wives, whose relation to each other, through the accidental or intentional
introduction of a third person, has been altogether changed—whose whole
moral condition has been inverted by it."

"That may very well be," replied Edward, "with people who live on
without looking where they are going; but not, surely, with persons whom
experience has taught to understand themselves."

"That understanding ourselves, my dearest husband," insisted Charlotte,
"is no such certain weapon. It is very often a most dangerous one for the
person who bears it. And out of all this, at least so much seems to arise, that
we should not be in too great a hurry. Let me have a few days to think; don't
decide."

"As the matter stands," returned Edward, "wait as many days as we will,
we shall still be in too great a hurry. The arguments for and against are all
before us; all we want is the conclusion, and as things are, I think the best
thing we can do is to draw lots."

"I know," said Charlotte, "that in doubtful cases it is your way to leave
them to chance. To me, in such a serious matter, this seems almost a crime."

"Then what am I to write to the Captain?" cried Edward; "for write I
must at once."

"Write him a kind, sensible, sympathizing letter," answered Charlotte.

"That is as good as none at all," replied Edward.

"And there are many cases," answered she, "in which we are obliged, and
in which it is the real kindness, rather to write nothing than not to write."

CHAPTER II

Edward was alone in his room. The repetition of the incidents of his life
from Charlotte's lips; the representation of their mutual situation, their
mutual purposes, had worked him, sensitive as he was, into a very pleasant
state of mind. While close to her—while in her presence—he had felt so
happy, that he had thought out a warm, kind, but quiet and indefinite epistle
which he would send to the Captain. When, however, he had settled himself
at his writing-table, and taken up his friend's letter to read it over once
more, the sad condition of this excellent man rose again vividly before him.
The feelings which had been all day distressing him again awoke, and it
appeared impossible to him to leave one whom he called his friend in such
painful embarrassment.

Edward was unaccustomed to deny himself anything. The only child, and
consequently the spoilt child, of wealthy parents, who had persuaded him
into a singular, but highly advantageous marriage with a lady far older than
himself; and again by her petted and indulged in every possible way, she
seeking to reward his kindness to her by the utmost liberality; after her early
death his own master, traveling independently of every one, equal to all
contingencies and all changes, with desires never excessive, but multiple
and various—free-hearted, generous, brave, at times even noble—what was
there in the world to cross or thwart him?

Hitherto, everything had gone as he desired! Charlotte had become his;
he had won her at last, with an obstinate, a romantic fidelity; and now he
felt himself, for the first time, contradicted, crossed in his wishes, when
those wishes were to invite to his home the friend of his youth—just as he
was longing, as it were, to throw open his whole heart to him. He felt
annoyed, impatient; he took up his pen again and again, and as often threw
it down again, because he could not make up his mind what to write.
Against his wife's wishes he would not go; against her expressed desire he
could not. Ill at ease as he was, it would have been impossible for him, even
if he had wished, to write a quiet, easy letter. The most natural thing to do,
was to put it off. In a few words, he begged his friend to forgive him for
having left his letter unanswered; that day he was unable to write
circumstantially; but shortly, he hoped to be able to tell him what he felt at
greater length.

The next day, as they were walking to the same spot, Charlotte took the
opportunity of bringing back the conversation to the subject, perhaps
because she knew that there is no surer way of rooting out any plan or
purpose than by often talking it over.

It was what Edward was wishing. He expressed him self in his own way,
kindly and sweetly. For although, sensitive as, he was, he flamed up readily
—although the vehemence with which he desired anything made him
pressing, and his obstinacy made him impatient—his words were so
softened by his wish to spare the feelings of those to whom he was
speaking, that it was impossible not to be charmed, even when one most
disagreed, with him.

This morning, he first contrived to bring Charlotte into the happiest
humor, and then so disarmed her with the graceful turn which he gave to the
conversation, that she cried out at last:

"You are determined that what I refused to the husband you will make me
grant to the lover. At least, my dearest," she continued, "I will acknowledge
that your wishes,—and the warmth and sweetness with which you express
them, have not left me untouched, have not left me unmoved. You drive me
to make a confession;—till now, I too have had a concealment from you; I
am in exactly the same position with you, and I have hitherto been putting
the same restraint on my inclination which I have been exhorting you to put
on yours."

"Glad am I to hear that," said Edward. "In the married state, a difference
of opinion now and then, I see, is no bad thing; we learn something of each
other by it."

"You are to learn at present, then," said Charlotte, "that it is with me
about Ottilie as it is with you about the Captain. The dear child is most
uncomfortable at the school, and I am thoroughly uneasy about her.
Luciana, my daughter, born as she is for the world, is there training hourly
for the world; languages, history, everything that is taught there, she
acquires with so much ease that, as it were, she learns them off at sight. She
has quick natural gifts, and an excellent memory; one may almost say she
forgets everything, and in a moment calls it all back again. She
distinguishes herself above every one at the school with the freedom of her
carriage, the grace of her movement, and the elegance of her address, and
with the inborn royalty of nature makes herself the queen of the little circle
there. The superior of the establishment regards her as a little divinity, who,
under her hands, is shaping into excellence, and who will do her honor, gain
her reputation, and bring her a large increase of pupils; the first pages of
this good lady's letters, and her monthly notices of progress, are forever
hymns about the excellence of such a child, which I have to translate into
my own prose; while her concluding sentences about Ottilie are nothing but
excuse after excuse—attempts at explaining how it can be that a girl in

other respects growing up so lovely seems coming to nothing, and shows
neither capacity nor accomplishment. This, and the little she has to say
besides, is no riddle to me, because I can see in this dear child the same
character as that of her mother, who was my own dearest friend; who grew
up with myself, and whose daughter, I am certain, if I had the care of her
education, would form into an exquisite creature.

"This, however, has not fallen in with our plan, and as one ought not to
be picking and pulling, or for ever introducing new elements among the
conditions of our lives, I think it better to bear, and to conquer as I can, even
the unpleasant impression that my daughter, who knows very well that poor
Ottilie is entirely dependent upon us, does not refrain from flourishing her
own successes in her face, and so, to a certain extent, destroys the little
good which we have done for her. Who are well trained enough never to
wound others by a parade of their own advantages? and who stands so high
as not at times to suffer under such a slight? In trials like these, Ottilie's
character is growing in strength, but since I have clearly known the
painfulness of her situation, I have been thinking over all possible ways to
make some other arrangement. Every hour I am expecting an answer to my
own last letter, and then I do not mean to hesitate any more. So, my dear
Edward, it is with me. We have both, you see, the same sorrows to bear,
touching both our hearts in the same point. Let us bear them together, since
we neither of us can press our own against the other."

"We are strange creatures," said Edward, smiling. "If we can only put out
of sight anything which troubles us, we fancy at once we have got rid of it.
We can give up much in the large and general; but to make sacrifices in
little things is a demand to which we are rarely equal. So it was with my
mother,—as long as I lived with her, while a boy and a young man, she
could not bear to let me be a moment out of her sight. If I was out later than
usual in my ride, some misfortune must have happened to me. If I got wet

through in a shower, a fever was inevitable. I traveled; I was absent from
her altogether; and, at once, I scarcely seemed to belong to her. If we look
at it closer," he continued, "we are both acting very foolishly, very culpably.
Two very noble natures, both of which have the closest claims on our
affection, we are leaving exposed to pain and distress, merely to avoid
exposing ourselves to a chance of danger. If this is not to be called selfish,
what is? You take Ottilie. Let me have the Captain; and, for a short period,
at least, let the trial be made."

"We might venture it," said Charlotte, thoughtfully, "if the danger were
only to ourselves. But do you think it prudent to bring Ottilie and the
Captain into a situation where they must necessarily be so closely intimate;
the Captain, a man no older than yourself, of an age (I am not saying this to
flatter you) when a man becomes first capable of love and first deserving of
it, and a girl of Ottilie's attractiveness?"

"I cannot conceive how you can rate Ottilie so high," replied Edward. "I
can only explain it to myself by supposing her to have inherited your
affection for her mother. Pretty she is, no doubt. I remember the Captain
observing it to me, when we came back last year, and met her at your aunt's.
Attractive she is,—she has particularly pretty eyes; but I do not know that
she made the slightest impression upon me."

"That was quite proper in you," said Charlotte, "seeing that I was there;
and, although she is much younger than I, the presence of your old friend
had so many charms for you, that you overlooked the promise of the
opening beauty. It is one of your ways; and that is one reason why it is so
pleasant to live with you."

Charlotte, openly as she appeared to be speaking, was keeping back
something, nevertheless; which was that at the time when Edward came
first back from abroad, she had purposely thrown Ottilie in his way, to

secure, if possible, so desirable a match for her protégée. For of herself, at
that time, in connection with Edward, she never thought at all. The Captain,
also, had a hint given to him to draw Edward's attention to her; but the
latter, who was clinging determinately to his early affection for Charlotte,
looked neither right nor left, and was only happy in the feeling that it was at
last within his power to obtain for himself the one happiness which he so
earnestly desired; and which a series of incidents had appeared to have
placed forever beyond his reach.

They were on the point of descending the new grounds, in order to return
to the castle, when a servant came hastily to meet them, and, with a laugh
on his face, called up from below, "Will your grace be pleased to come
quickly to the castle? The Herr Mittler has just galloped into the court. He
shouted to us, to go all of us in search of you, and we were to ask whether
there was need; 'whether there is need,' he cried after us, 'do you hear? But
be quick, be quick.'"

"The odd fellow," exclaimed Edward. "But has he not come at the right
time, Charlotte? Tell him, there is need,—grievous need. He must alight.
See his horse taken care of. Take him into the saloon, and let him have
some luncheon. We shall be with him immediately."

"Let us take the nearest way," he said to his wife, and struck into the path
across the churchyard, which he usually avoided. He was not a little
surprised to find here, too, traces of Charlotte's delicate hand. Sparing, as
far as possible, the old monuments, she had contrived to level it, and lay it
carefully out, so as to make it appear a pleasant spot on which the eye and
the imagination could equally repose with pleasure. The oldest stones had
each their special honor assigned them. They were ranged according to their
dates along the wall, either leaning against it, or let into it, or however it

could be contrived; and the string-course of the church was thus variously
ornamented.

Edward was singularly affected as he came in upon it through the little
wicket; he pressed Charlotte's hand, and tears started into his eyes. But
these were very soon put to flight, by the appearance of their singular
visitor. This gentleman had declined sitting down in the castle; he had
ridden straight through the village to the churchyard gate; and then, halting,
he called out to his friends, "Are you not making a fool of me? Is there
need, really? If there is, I can stay till mid-day. But don't keep me. I have a
great deal to do before night."

"Since you have taken the trouble to come so far," cried Edward to him,
in answer, "you had better come through the gate. We meet at a solemn
spot. Come and see the variety which Charlotte has thrown over its
sadness."

"Inside there," called out the rider, "come I neither on horseback, nor in
carriage, nor on foot. These here rest in peace: with them I have nothing to
do. One day I shall be carried in feet foremost. I must bear that as I can. Is it
serious, I want to know?"

"Indeed it is," cried Charlotte, "right serious. For the first time in our
married lives, we are in a strait and difficulty, from which we do not know
how to extricate ourselves."

"You do not look as if it were so," answered he. "But I will believe you.
If you are deceiving me, for the future you shall help yourselves. Follow me
quickly, my horse will be none the worse for a rest."

The three speedily found themselves in the saloon together. Luncheon
was brought in, and Mittler told them what that day he had done, and was

going to do. This eccentric person had in early life been a clergyman, and
had distinguished himself in his office by the never-resting activity with
which he contrived to make up and put an end to quarrels: quarrels in
families, and quarrels between neighbors; first among the individuals
immediately about him, and afterward among whole congregations, and
among the country gentlemen round. While he was in the ministry, no
married couple was allowed to separate; and the district courts were
untroubled with either cause or process. A knowledge of the law, he was
well aware, was necessary to him. He gave himself with all his might to the
study of it, and very soon felt himself a match for the best trained advocate.
His circle of activity extended wonderfully, and people were on the point of
inducing him to move to the Residence, where he would find opportunities
of exercising in the higher circles what he had begun in the lowest, when he
won a considerable sum of money in a lottery. With this, he bought himself
a small property. He let the ground to a tenant, and made it the centre of his
operations, with the fixed determination, or rather in accordance with his
old customs and inclinations, never to enter a house when there was no
dispute to make up, and no help to be given. People who were superstitious
about names, and about what they imported, maintained that it was his
being called Mittler which drove him to take upon himself this strange
employment.

Luncheon was laid on the table, and the stranger then solemnly pressed
his host not to wait any longer with the disclosure which he had to make.
Immediately after refreshing himself he would be obliged to leave them.

Husband and wife made a circumstantial confession; but scarcely had he
caught the substance of the matter, when he started angrily up from the
table, rushed out of the saloon, and ordered his horse to be saddled
instantly.

"Either you do not know me, you do not understand me," he cried, "or
you are sorely mischievous. Do you call this a quarrel? Is there any want of
help here? Do you suppose that I am in the world to give advice? Of all
occupations which man can pursue, that is the most foolish. Every man
must be his own counsellor, and do what he cannot let alone. If all go well,
let him be happy, let him enjoy his wisdom and his fortune; if it go ill, I am
at hand to do what I can for him. The man who desires to be rid of an evil
knows what he wants; but the man who desires something better than he has
got is stone blind. Yes, yes, laugh as you will, he is playing blindman's-buff;
perhaps he gets hold of something, but the question is what he has got hold
of. Do as you will, it is all one. Invite your friends to you, or let them be, it
is all the same. The most prudent plans I have seen miscarry, and the most
foolish succeed. Don't split your brains about it; and if, one way or the
other, evil comes of what you settle, don't fret; send for me, and you shall
be helped. Till which time, I am your humble servant."

So saying, he sprang on his horse, without waiting the arrival of the
coffee.

"Here you see," said Charlotte, "the small service a third person can be,
when things are off their balance between two persons closely connected;
we are left, if possible, more confused and more uncertain than we were."

They would both, probably, have continued hesitating some time longer,
had not a letter arrived from the Captain, in reply to Edward's last. He had
made up his mind to accept one of the situations which had been offered
him, although it was not in the least up to his mark. He was to share the
ennui of certain wealthy persons of rank, who depended on his ability to
dissipate it.

Edward's keen glance saw into the whole thing, and he pictured it out in
just, sharp lines.

"Can we endure to think of our friend in such a position?" he cried; "you
cannot be so cruel, Charlotte."

"That strange Mittler is right after all," replied Charlotte; "all such
undertakings are ventures; what will come of them it is impossible to
foresee. New elements introduced among us may be fruitful in fortune or in
misfortune, without our having to take credit to ourselves for one or the
other. I do not feel myself firm enough to oppose you further. Let us make
the experiment; only one thing I will entreat of you—that it be only for a
short time. You must allow me to exert myself more than ever, to use all my
influence among all my connections, to find him some position which will
satisfy him in his own way."

Edward poured out the warmest expressions of gratitude. He hastened,
with a light, happy heart, to write off his proposals to his friend. Charlotte,
in a postscript, was to signify her approbation with her own hand, and unite
her own kind entreaties with his. She wrote, with a rapid pen, pleasantly
and affectionately, but yet with a sort of haste which was not usual with her;
and, most unlike herself, she disfigured the paper at last with a blot of ink,
which put her out of temper, and which she only made worse with her
attempts to wipe it away.

Edward laughed at her about it, and, as there was still room, added a
second postscript, that his friend was to see from this symptom the
impatience with which he was expected, and measure the speed at which he
came to them by the haste in which the letter was written.

The messenger was gone; and Edward thought he could not give a more
convincing evidence of his gratitude, than in insisting again and again that
Charlotte should at once send for Ottilie from the school. She said she
would think about it; and, for that evening, induced Edward to join with her
in the enjoyment of a little music. Charlotte played exceedingly well on the

piano, Edward not quite so well on the flute. He had taken a great deal of
pains with it at times; but he was without the patience, without the
perseverance, which are requisite for the completely successful cultivation
of such a talent; consequently, his part was done unequally, some pieces
well, only perhaps too quickly—while with others he hesitated, not being
quite familiar with them; so that, for any one else, it would have been
difficult to have gone through a duet with him. But Charlotte knew how to
manage it. She held in, or let herself be run away with, and fulfilled in this
way the double part of a skilful conductor and a prudent housewife, who are
able always to keep right on the whole, although particular passages will
now and then fall out of order.

CHAPTER III

The Captain came, having previously written a most sensible letter, which
had entirely quieted Charlotte's apprehensions. So much clearness about
himself, so just an understanding of his own position and the position of his
friends, promised everything which was best and happiest.

The conversation of the first few hours, as is generally the case with
friends who have not met for a long time, was eager, lively, almost
exhausting. Toward evening, Charlotte proposed a walk to the new grounds.
The Captain was delighted with the spot, and observed every beauty which
had been first brought into sight and made enjoyable by the new walks. He
had a practised eye, and at the same time one easily satisfied; and although
he knew very well what was really valuable, he never, as so many persons
do, made people who were showing him things of their own uncomfortable,
by requiring more than the circumstances admitted of, or by mentioning
anything more perfect, which he remembered having seen elsewhere.

When they arrived at the summer-house, they found it dressed out for a
holiday, only, indeed, with artificial flowers and evergreens, but with some
pretty bunches of natural corn-ears among them, and other field and garden
fruit, so as to do credit to the taste which had arranged them.

"Although my husband does not like in general to have his birthday or
christening-day kept," Charlotte said, "he will not object today to these few

ornaments being expended on a treble festival."

"Treble?" cried Edward.

"Yes, indeed," she replied. "Our friend's arrival here we are bound to
keep as a festival; and have you never thought, either of you, that this is the
day on which you were both christened? Are you not both named Otto?"

The two friends shook hands across the little table.

"You bring back to my mind," Edward said, "this little link of our boyish
affection. As children, we were both called so; but when we came to be at
school together, it was the cause of much confusion, and I readily made
over to him all my right to the pretty laconic name."

"Wherein you were not altogether so very high-minded," said the
Captain; "for I well remember that the name of Edward had then begun to
please you better, from its attractive sound when spoken by certain pretty
lips."

They were now sitting all three round the same table where Charlotte had
spoken so vehemently against their guest's coming to them. Edward, happy
as he was, did not wish to remind his wife of that time; but he could not
help saying, "There is good room here for one more person."

At this moment the notes of a bugle were heard across from the castle.
Full of happy thoughts and feelings as the friends all were together, the
sound fell in among them with a strong force of answering harmony. They
listened silently, each for the moment withdrawing into himself, and feeling
doubly happy in the fair circle of which he formed a part. The pause was
first broken by Edward, who started up and walked out in front of the
summer-house.

"Our friend must not think," he said to Charlotte, "that this narrow little
valley forms the whole of our domain and possessions. Let us take him up
to the top of the hill, where he can see farther and breathe more freely."

"For this once, then," answered Charlotte, "we must climb up the old
footpath, which is not too easy. By the next time, I hope my walks and steps
will have been carried right up."

And so, among rocks, and shrubs, and bushes, they made their way to the
summit, where they found themselves, not on a level flat, but on a sloping
grassy terrace, running along the ridge of the hill. The village, with the
castle behind it, was out of sight. At the bottom of the valley, sheets of
water were seen spreading out right and left, with wooded hills rising
immediately from their opposite margin, and, at the end of the upper water,
a wall of sharp, precipitous rocks directly overhanging it, their huge forms
reflected in its level surface. In the hollow of the ravine, where a
considerable brook ran into the lake, lay a mill, half hidden among the trees,
a sweetly retired spot, most beautifully surrounded; and through the entire
semicircle, over which the view extended, ran an endless variety of hills
and valleys, copse and forest, the early green of which promised the near
approach of a luxuriant clothing of foliage. In many places particular
groups of trees caught the eye; and especially a cluster of planes and
poplars directly at the spectator's feet, close to the edge of the centre lake.
They were at their full growth, and they stood there, spreading out their
boughs all around them, in fresh and luxuriant strength.

To these Edward called his friend's attention.

"I myself planted them," he cried, "when I was a boy. They were small
trees which I rescued when my father was laying out the new part of the
great castle garden, and in the middle of one summer had rooted them out.

This year you will no doubt see them show their gratitude in a fresh set of
shoots."

They returned to the castle in high spirits, and mutually pleased with each
other. To the guest was allotted an agreeable and roomy set of apartments in
the right wing of the castle; and here he rapidly got his books and papers
and instruments in order, to go on with his usual occupation. But Edward,
for the first few days, gave him no rest. He took him about everywhere,
now on foot, now on horseback, making him acquainted with the country
and with the estate; and he embraced the opportunity of imparting to him
the wishes which he had been long entertaining, of getting at some better
acquaintance with it, and learning to manage it more profitably.

"The first thing we have to do," said the Captain, "is to make a magnetic
survey of the property. That is a pleasant and easy matter; and if it does not
admit of entire exactness, it will be always useful, and will do, at any rate,
for an agreeable beginning. It can be made, too, without any great staff of
assistants, and one can be sure of getting it completed. If by-and-by you
come to require anything more exact, it will be easy then to find some plan
to have it made."

The Captain was exceedingly skilful at work of thus kind. He had
brought with him whatever instruments he required, and commenced
immediately. Edward provided him with a number of foresters and
peasants, who, with his instruction, were able to render him all necessary
assistance. The weather was favorable. The evenings and the early
mornings were devoted to the designing and drawing, and in a short time it
was all filled in and colored. Edward saw his possessions grow out like a
new creation upon the paper; and it seemed as if now for the first time he
knew what they were, as if they now first were properly his own.

Thus there came occasion to speak of the park, and of the ways of laying
it out; a far better disposition of things being made possible after a survey
of this kind, than could be arrived at by experimenting on nature, on partial
and accidental impressions.

"We must make my wife understand this," said Edward.

"We must do nothing of the kind," replied the Captain, who did not like
bringing his own notions in collision with those of others. He had learnt by
experience that the motives and purposes by which men are influenced are
far too various to be made to coalesce upon a single point, even on the most
solid representations. "We must not do it," he cried; "she will be only
confused. With her, as with all people who employ themselves on such
matters merely as amateurs, the important thing is, rather that she shall do
something, than that something shall be done. Such persons feel their way
with nature. They have fancies for this plan or that; they do not venture on
removing obstacles. They are not bold enough to make a sacrifice. They do
not know beforehand in what their work is to result. They try an experiment
—it succeeds—it fails; they alter it; they alter, perhaps, what they ought to
leave alone, and leave what they ought to alter; and so, at last, there always
remains but a patchwork, which pleases and amuses, but never satisfies."

"Acknowledge candidly," said Edward, "that you do not like this new
work of hers."

"The idea is excellent," he replied; "if the execution were equal to it,
there would be no fault to find. But she has tormented herself to find her
way up that rock; and she now torments every one, if you must have it, that
she takes up after her. You cannot walk together, you cannot walk behind
one another, with any freedom. Every moment your step is interrupted one
way or another. There is no end to the mistakes which she has made."

"Would it have been easy to have done it otherwise?" asked Edward.

"Perfectly," replied the Captain. "She had only to break away a corner of
the rock, which is now but an unsightly object, made up as it is of little
pieces, and she would at once have a sweep for her walk and stone in
abundance for the rough masonry work, to widen it in the bad places, and
make it smooth. But this I tell you in strictest confidence. Her it would only
confuse and annoy. What is done must remain as it is. If any more money
and labor is to be spent there, there is abundance to do above the summer-
house on the hill, which we can settle our own way."

If the two friends found in their occupation abundance of present
employment, there was no lack either of entertaining reminiscences of early
times, in which Charlotte took her part as well. They determined, moreover,
that as soon as their immediate labors were finished, they would go to work
upon the journal, and in this way, too, reproduce the past.

For the rest, when Edward and Charlotte were alone, there were fewer
matters of private interest between them than formerly. This was especially
the case since the fault-finding about the grounds, which Edward thought so
just, and which he felt to the quick. He held his tongue about what the
Captain had said for a long time; but at last, when he saw his wife again
preparing to go to work above the summer-house, with her paths and steps,
he could not contain himself any longer, but, after a few circumlocutions,
came out with his new views.

Charlotte was thoroughly disturbed. She was sensible enough to perceive
at once that they were right, but there was the difficulty with what was
already done—and what was made was made. She had liked it; even what
was wrong had become dear to her in its details. She fought against her
convictions; she defended her little creations; she railed at men who were
forever going to the broad and the great. They could not let a pastime, they

could not let an amusement alone, she said, but they must go and make a
work out of it, never thinking of the expense which their larger plans
involved. She was provoked, annoyed, and angry. Her old plans she could
not give up, the new she would not quite throw from her; but, divided as she
was, for the present she put a stop to the work, and gave herself time to
think the thing over, and let it ripen by itself.

At the same time that she lost this source of active amusement, the others
were more and more together over their own business. They took to
occupying themselves, moreover, with the flower-garden and the hot-
houses; and as they filled up the intervals with the ordinary gentlemen's
amusements, hunting, riding, buying, selling, breaking horses, and such
matters, she was every day left more and more to herself. She devoted
herself more assiduously than ever to her correspondence on account of the
Captain; and yet she had many lonely hours; so that the information which
she now received from the school became of more agreeable interest.

To a long-drawn letter of the superior of the establishment, filled with the
usual expressions of delight at her daughter's progress, a brief postscript
was attached, with a second from the hand of a gentleman in employment
there as an Assistant, both of which we here communicate.

POSTSCRIPT OF THE SUPERIOR

"Of Ottilie, I can only repeat to your ladyship what I have already stated
in my former letters. I do not know how to find fault with her, yet I cannot
say that I am satisfied. She is always unassuming, always ready to oblige
others; but it is not pleasing to see her so timid, so almost servile.

"Your ladyship lately sent her some money, with several little matters for
her wardrobe. The money she has never touched, the dresses lie unworn in
their place. She keeps her things very nice and very clean; but this is all she

seems to care about. Again, I cannot praise her excessive abstemiousness in
eating and drinking. There is no extravagance at our table, but there is
nothing that I like better than to see the children eat enough of good,
wholesome food. What is carefully provided and set before them ought to
be taken; and to this I never can succeed in bringing Ottilie. She is always
making herself some occupation or other, always finding something which
she must do, something which the servants have neglected, to escape the
second course or the dessert; and now it has to be considered (which I
cannot help connecting with all this) that she frequently suffers, I have
lately learnt, from pain in the left side of her head. It is only at times, but it
is distressing, and may be of importance. So much upon this otherwise
sweet and lovely girl."

SECOND POSTSCRIPT, BY THE ASSISTANT

"Our excellent superior commonly permits me to read the letters in which
she communicates her observations upon her pupils to their parents and
friends. Such of them as are addressed to your ladyship I ever read with
twofold attention and pleasure. We have to congratulate you upon a
daughter who unites in herself every brilliant quality with which people
distinguish themselves in the world; and I at least think you no less
fortunate in having had bestowed upon you, in your step-daughter, a child
who has been born for the good and happiness of others, and assuredly also
for her own. Ottilie is almost our only pupil about whom there is a
difference of opinion between myself and our reverend superior. I do not
complain of the very natural desire in that good lady to see outward and
definite fruits arising from her labors. But there are also fruits which are not
outward, which are of the true germinal sort, and which develop themselves
sooner or later in a beautiful life. And this I am certain is the case with your
protégée. So long as she has been under my care, I have watched her
moving with an even step, slowly, steadily forward—never back. As with a

child it is necessary to begin everything at the beginning, so it is with her.
She can comprehend nothing which does not follow from what precedes it;
let a thing be as simple and easy as possible, she can make nothing of it if it
is not in a recognizable connection; but find the intermediate links, and
make them clear to her, and then nothing is too difficult for her.

"Progressing with such slow steps, she remains behind her companions,
who, with capacities of quite a different kind, hurry on and on, learn
everything readily, connected or unconnected, recollect it with ease, and
apply it with correctness. And again, some of the lessons here are given by
excellent, but somewhat hasty and impatient teachers, who pass from result
to result, cutting short the process by which they are arrived at; and these
are not of the slightest service to her; she learns nothing from them. There is
a complaint of her handwriting. They say she will not, or cannot,
understand how to form her letters. I have examined closely into this. It is
true she writes slowly, stiffly, if you like; but the hand is neither timid nor
without character. The French language is not my department, but I have
taught her something of it, in the step-by-step fashion; and this she
understands easily. Indeed, it is singular that she knows a great deal, and
knows it well, too; and yet when she is asked a question, it seems as if she
knew nothing.

"To conclude generally, I should say she learns nothing like a person who
is being educated, but she learns like one who is to educate—not like a
pupil, but like a future teacher. Your ladyship may think it strange that I, as
an educator and a teacher, can find no higher praise to give to any one than
by a comparison with myself. I may leave it to your own good sense, to
your deep knowledge of the world and of mankind, to make the best of my
most inadequate, but well-intended expressions. You may satisfy yourself
that you have much happiness to promise yourself from this child. I
commend myself to your ladyship, and I beseech you to permit me to write

to you again as soon as I see reason to believe that I have anything
important or agreeable to communicate."

This letter gave Charlotte great pleasure. The contents of it coincided
very closely with the notions which she had herself conceived of Ottilie. At
the same time, she could not help smiling at the excessive interest of the
Assistant, which seemed greater than the insight into a pupil's excellence
usually calls forth. In her quiet, unprejudiced way of looking at things, this
relation, among others, she was contented to permit to lie before her as a
possibility; she could value the interest of so sensible a man in Ottilie,
having learnt, among the lessons of her life, to see how highly true regard is
to be prized in a world where indifference or dislike are the common natural
residents.

CHAPTER IV

The topographical chart of the property and its environs was completed. It
was executed on a considerable scale; the character of the particular
localities was made intelligible by various colors; and by means of a
trigonometrical survey the Captain had been able to arrive at a very fair
exactness of measurement. He had been rapid in his work. There was
scarcely ever any one who could do with less sleep than this most laborious
man; and, as his day was always devoted to an immediate purpose, every
evening something had been done.

"Let us now," he said to his friend, "go on to what remains for us, to the
statistics of the estate. We shall have a good deal of work to get through at
the beginning, and afterward we shall come to the farm estimates, and much
else which will naturally arise out of them. Only we must have one thing
distinctly settled and adhered to. Everything which is properly business we
must keep carefully separate from life. Business requires earnestness and
method; life must have a freer handling. Business demands the utmost
stringency and sequence; in life, inconsecutiveness is frequently necessary,
indeed, is charming and graceful. If you are firm in the first, you can afford
yourself more liberty in the second; while if you mix them, you will find the
free interfering with and breaking in upon the fixed."

In these sentiments Edward felt a slight reflection upon himself. Though
not naturally disorderly, he could never bring himself to arrange his papers

in their proper places. What he had to do in connection with others, was not
kept separate from what depended only on himself. Business got mixed up
with amusement, and serious work with recreation. Now, however, it was
easy for him, with the help of a friend who would take the trouble upon
himself; and a second "I" worked out the separation, to which the single "I"
was always unequal.

In the Captain's wing, they contrived a depository for what concerned the
present, and an archive for the past. Here they brought all the documents,
papers, and notes from their various hiding-places, rooms, drawers, and
boxes, with the utmost speed. Harmony and order were introduced into the
wilderness, and the different packets were marked and registered in their
several pigeon-holes. They found all they wanted in greater completeness
even than they had expected; and here an old clerk was found of no slight
service, who for the whole day and part of the night never left his desk, and
with whom, till then, Edward had been always dissatisfied.

"I should not know him again," he said to his friend, "the man is so handy
and useful."

"That," replied the Captain, "is because we give him nothing fresh to do
till he has finished, at his convenience, what he has already; and so, as you
perceive, he gets through a great deal. If you disturb him, he becomes
useless at once."

Spending their days together in this way, in the evenings they never
neglected their regular visits to Charlotte. If there was no party from the
neighborhood, as was often the case, they read and talked, principally on
subjects connected with the improvement of the condition and comfort of
social life.

Charlotte, always accustomed to make the most of opportunities, not only
saw her husband pleased, but found personal advantages for herself. Various
domestic arrangements, which she had long wished to make, but which she
did not know exactly how to set about, were managed for her through the
contrivance of the Captain. Her domestic medicine-chest, hitherto but
poorly furnished, was enlarged and enriched, and Charlotte herself, with the
help of good books and personal instruction, was put in the way of being
able to exercise her disposition to be of practical assistance more frequently
and more efficiently than before.

In providing against accidents, which, though common, yet only too
often find us unprepared, they thought it especially necessary to have at
hand whatever is required for the recovery of drowning men—accidents of
this kind, from the number of canals, reservoirs, and waterworks in the
neighborhood, being of frequent occurrence. This department the Captain
took expressly into his own hands; and the observation escaped Edward,
that a case of this kind had made a very singular epoch in the life of his
friend. The latter made no reply, but seemed to be trying to escape from a
painful recollection. Edward immediately stopped; and Charlotte, who, as
well as he, had a general knowledge of the story, took no notice of the
expression.

"These preparations are all exceedingly valuable," said the Captain, one
evening. "Now, however, we have not got the one thing which is most
essential—a sensible man who understands how to manage it all. I know an
army surgeon, whom I could exactly recommend for the place. You might
get him at this moment, on easy terms. He is highly distinguished in his
profession, and has frequently done more for me, in the treatment even of
violent inward disorders, than celebrated physicians. Help upon the spot, is
the thing you often most want in the country."

He was written for at once; and Edward and Charlotte were rejoiced to
have found so good and necessary an object on which to expend so much of
the money which they set apart for such accidental demands upon them.

Thus Charlotte, too, found means of making use, for her purposes, of the
Captain's knowledge and practical skill; and she began to be quite
reconciled to his presence, and to feel easy about any consequences which
might ensue. She commonly prepared questions to ask him; among other
things, it was one of her anxieties to provide against whatever was
prejudicial to health and comfort, against poisons and such like. The lead-
glazing on the china, the verdigris which formed about her copper and
bronze vessels, etc., had long been a trouble to her. She got him to tell her
about these, and, naturally, they often had to fall back on the first elements
of medicine and chemistry.

An accidental, but welcome occasion for entertainment of this kind, was
given by an inclination of Edward to read aloud. He had a particularly clear,
deep voice, and earlier in life had earned himself a pleasant reputation for
his feeling and lively recitations of works of poetry and oratory. At this time
he was occupied with other subjects, and the books which, for some time
past, he had been reading, were either chemical or on some other branch of
natural or technical science.

One of his especial peculiarities—which, by-the-by, he very likely shares
with a number of his fellow-creatures—was, that he could not bear to have
any one looking over him when he was reading. In early life, when he used
to read poems, plays, or stories, this had been the natural consequence of
the desire which the reader feels, like the poet, or the actor, or the story-
teller, to make surprises, to pause, to excite expectation; and this sort of
effect was naturally defeated when a third person's eyes could run on before
him, and see what was coming. On such occasions, therefore, he was

accustomed to place himself in such a position that no one could get behind
him. With a party of only three, this was unnecessary; and as with the
present subject there was no opportunity for exciting feelings or giving the
imagination a surprise, he did not take any particular pains to protect
himself.

One evening he had placed himself carelessly, and Charlotte happened by
accident to cast her eyes upon the page. His old impatience was aroused; he
turned to her, and said, almost unkindly:

[Illustration: EDWARD READING ALOUD TO CHARLOTTE AND
THE CAPTAIN]

"I do wish, once for all, you would leave off doing a thing so out of taste
and so disagreeable. When I read aloud to a person, is it not the same as if I
was telling him something by word of mouth? The written, the printed
word, is in the place of my own thoughts, of my own heart. If a window
were broken into my brain or into my heart, and if the man to whom I am
counting out my thoughts, or delivering my sentiments, one by one, knew
beforehand exactly what was to come out of me, should I take the trouble to
put them into words? When anybody looks over my book, I always feel as
if I were being torn in two."

Charlotte's tact, in whatever circle she might be, large or small, was
remarkable, and she was able to set aside disagreeable or excited
expressions without appearing to notice them. When a conversation grew
tedious, she knew how to interrupt it; when it halted, she could set it going.
And this time her good gift did not forsake her.

"I am sure you will forgive me my fault," she said, when I tell you what it
was this moment which came over me. I heard you reading something about
Affinities, and I thought directly of some relations of mine, two of whom

are just now occupying me a great deal. Then my attention went back to the
book. I found it was not about living things at all, and I looked over to get
the thread of it right again."

"It was the comparison which led you wrong and confused you," said
Edward. "The subject is nothing but earths and minerals. But man is a true
Narcissus; he delights to see his own image everywhere; and he spreads
himself underneath the universe, like the amalgam behind the glass."

"Quite true," continued the Captain. "That is the way in which he treats
everything external to himself. His wisdom and his folly, his will and his
caprice, he attributes alike to the animal, the plant, the elements, and the
gods."

"Would you," said Charlotte, "if it is not taking you away too much from
the immediate subject, tell me briefly what is meant here by Affinities?"

"I shall be very glad indeed," replied the Captain, to whom Charlotte had
addressed herself. "That is, I will tell you as well as I can. My ideas on the
subject date ten years back; whether the scientific world continues to think
the same about it, I cannot tell."

"It is most disagreeable," cried Edward, "that one cannot now-a-days
learn a thing once for all, and have done with it. Our forefathers could keep
to what they were taught when they were young; but we have, every five
years, to make revolutions with them, if we do not wish to drop altogether
out of fashion."

"We women need not be so particular," said Charlotte; "and, to speak the
truth, I only want to know the meaning of the word. There is nothing more
ridiculous in society than to misuse a strange technical word; and I only
wish you to tell me in what sense the expression is made use of in

connection with these things. What its scientific application is I am quite
contented to leave to the learned; who, by-the-by, as far as I have been able
to observe, do not find it easy to agree among themselves."

"Whereabouts shall we begin," said Edward, after a pause, to the
Captain, "to come most quickly to the point?"

The latter, after thinking as little while, replied shortly:

"You must let me make what will seem a wide sweep; we shall be on our
subject almost immediately."

Charlotte settled her work at her side, promising the fullest attention.

The Captain began:

"In all natural objects with which we are acquainted, we observe
immediately that they have a certain relation to themselves. It may sound
ridiculous to be asserting what is obvious to every one; but it is only by
coming to a clear understanding together about what we know, that we can
advance to what we do not know."

"I think," interrupted Edward, "we can make the thing more clear to her,
and to ourselves, with examples; conceive water, or oil, or quicksilver;
among these you will see a certain oneness, a certain connection of their
parts; and this oneness is never lost, except through force or some other
determining cause. Let the cause cease to operate, and at once the parts
unite again."

"Unquestionably," said Charlotte, "that is plain; rain-drops readily unite
and form streams; and when we were children, it was our delight to play
with quicksilver, and wonder at the little globules splitting and parting and
running into one another."

"And here," said the Captain, "let me just cursorily mention one
remarkable thing—I mean, that the full, complete correlation of parts which
the fluid state makes possible, shows itself distinctly and universally in the
globular form. The falling water-drop is round; you yourself spoke of the
globules of quicksilver; and a drop of melted lead let fall, if it has time to
harden before it reaches the ground, is found at the bottom in the shape of a
ball."

"Let me try and see," said Charlotte, "whether I can understand where
you are bringing me. As everything has a reference to itself, so it must have
some relation to others."

"And that," interrupted Edward, "will be different according to the
natural differences of the things themselves. Sometimes they will meet like
friends and old acquaintances; they will come rapidly together, and unite
without either having to alter itself at all—as wine mixes with water.
Others, again, will remain as strangers side by side, and no amount of
mechanical mixing or forcing will succeed in combining them. Oil and
water may be shaken up together, and the next moment they are separate
again, each by itself."

"One can almost fancy," said Charlotte, "that in these simple forms one
sees people that one is acquainted with; one has met with just such things in
the societies amongst which one has lived; and the strangest likenesses of
all with these soulless creatures are in the masses in which men stand
divided one against the other, in their classes and professions; the nobility
and the third estate, for instance, or soldiers and civilians."

"Then again," replied Edward, "as these are united under common laws
and customs, so there are intermediate members in our chemical world
which will combine elements that are mutually repulsive."

"Oil, for instance," said the Captain, "we make combine with water with
the help of alkalis——"

"Do not go on too fast with your lesson," said Charlotte. "Let me see that
I keep step with you. Are we not here arrived among the affinities?"

"Exactly," replied the Captain; "we are on the point of apprehending
them in all their power and distinctness; such natures as, when they come in
contact, at once lay hold of each other, each mutually affecting the other, we
speak of as having an affinity one for the other. With the alkalis and acids,
for instance, the affinities are strikingly marked. They are of opposite
natures; very likely their being of opposite natures is the secret of their
inter-relational effect—each reaches out eagerly for its companion, they lay
hold of each other, modify each other's character, and form in connection an
entirely new substance. There is lime, you remember, which shows the
strongest inclination for all sorts of acids—a distinct desire of combining
with them. As soon as our chemical chest arrives, we can show you a
number of entertaining experiments which will give you a clearer idea than
words, and names, and technical expressions."

"It appears to me," said Charlotte, "that, if you choose to call these
strange creatures of yours related, the relationship is not so much a
relationship of blood as of soul or of spirit. It is the way in which we see all
really deep friendship arise among men, opposite peculiarities of
disposition being what best makes internal union possible. But I will wait to
see what you can really show me of these mysterious proceedings; and for
the present," she added, turning to Edward, "I will promise not to disturb
you any more in your reading. You have taught me enough of what it is
about to enable me to attend to it."

"No, no," replied Edward, "now that you have once stirred the thing, you
shall not get off so easily. It is just the most complicated cases which are the

most interesting. In these you come first to see the degrees of the affinities,
to watch them as their power of attraction is weaker or stronger, nearer or
more remote. Affinities begin really to interest only when they bring about
separations."

"What!" cried Charlotte, "is that miserable word, which unhappily we
hear so often now-a-days in the world; is that to be found in nature's lessons
too?"

"Most certainly," answered Edward; "the title with which chemists were
supposed to be most honorably distinguished was, artists of separation."

"It is not so any more," replied Charlotte; "and it is well that it is not. It is
a higher art, and it is a higher merit, to unite. An artist of union is what we
should welcome in every province of the universe. However, as we are on
the subject again, give me an instance or two of what you mean."

"We had better keep," said the Captain, "to the same instances of which
we have already been speaking. Thus, what we call limestone is a more or
less pure calcareous earth in combination with a delicate acid, which is
familiar to us in the form of a gas. Now, if we place a piece of this stone in
diluted sulphuric acid, this will take possession of the lime, and appear with
it in the form of gypsum, the gaseous acid at the same time going off in
vapor. Here is a case of separation; a combination arises, and we believe
ourselves now justified in applying to it the words 'Elective Affinity;' it
really looks as if one relation had been deliberately chosen in preference to
another.

"Forgive me," said Charlotte, "as I forgive the natural philosopher. I
cannot see any choice in this; I see a natural necessity rather, and scarcely
that. After all, it is perhaps merely a case of opportunity. Opportunity makes
relations as it makes thieves; and as long as the talk is only of natural

substances, the choice to me appears to be altogether in the hands of the
chemist who brings the creatures together. Once, however, let them be
brought together, and then God have mercy on them. In the present case, I
cannot help being sorry for the poor acid gas, which is driven out up and
down infinity again."

"The acid's business," answered the Captain, "is now to get connected
with water, and so serve as a mineral fountain for the refreshing of sound or
disordered mankind."

"That is very well for the gypsum to say," said Charlotte. "The gypsum is
all right, is a body, is provided for. The other poor, desolate creature may
have trouble enough to go through before it can find a second home for
itself."

"I am much mistaken," said Edward, smiling, "if there be not some little
arrière pensée behind this. Confess your wickedness! You mean me by your
lime; the lime is laid hold of by the Captain, in the form of sulphuric acid,
torn away from your agreeable society, and metamorphosed into a
refractory gypsum."

"If your conscience prompts you to make such a reflection," replied
Charlotte, "I certainly need not distress myself. These comparisons are
pleasant and entertaining; and who is there that does not like playing with
analogies? But man is raised very many steps above these elements; and if
he has been somewhat liberal with such fine words as Election and Elective
Affinities, he will do well to turn back again into himself, and take the
opportunity of considering carefully the value and meaning of such
expressions. Unhappily, we know cases enough where a connection
apparently indissoluble between two persons, has, by the accidental
introduction of a third, been utterly destroyed, and one or the other of the
once happily united pair been driven out into the wilderness."

"Then you see how much more gallant the chemists are," said Edward.
"They at once add a fourth, that neither may go away empty."

"Quite so," replied the Captain. "And those are the cases which are really
most important and remarkable—cases where this attraction, this affinity,
this separating and combining, can be exhibited, the two pairs severally
crossing each other; where four creatures, connected previously, as two and
two, are brought into contact, and at once forsake their first combination to
form into a second. In this forsaking and embracing, this seeking and flying,
we believe that we are indeed observing the effects of some higher
determination; we attribute a sort of will and choice to such creatures, and
feel really justified in using technical words, and speaking of 'Elective
Affinities.'"

"Give me an instance of this," said Charlotte.

"One should not spoil such things with words," replied the Captain. "As I
said before, as soon as I can show you the experiment, I can make it all
intelligible and pleasant for you. For the present, I can give you nothing but
horrible scientific expressions, which at the same time will give you no idea
about the matter. You ought yourself to see these creatures, which seem so
dead, and which are yet so full of inward energy and force, at work before
your eyes. You should observe them with a real personal interest. Now they
seek each other out, attract each other, seize, crush, devour, destroy each
other, and then suddenly reappear again out of their combinations, and
come forward in fresh, renovated, unexpected form; thus you will
comprehend how we attribute to them a sort of immortality—how we speak
of them as having sense and understanding; because we feel our own senses
to be insufficient to observe them adequately, and our reason too weak to
follow them."

"I quite agree," said Edward, "that the strange scientific nomenclature, to
persons who have not been reconciled to it by a direct acquaintance with or
understanding of its object, must seem unpleasant, even ridiculous; but we
can easily, just for once, contrive with symbols to illustrate what we are
speaking of."

"If you do not think it looks pedantic," answered the Captain, "I can put
my meaning together with letters. Suppose an A connected so closely with a
B, that all sorts of means, even violence, have been made use of to separate
them, without effect. Then suppose a C in exactly the same position with
respect to D. Bring the two pairs into contact; A will fling himself on D, C
on B, without its being possible to say which had first left its first
connection, or made the first move toward the second."

"Now then," interposed Edward, "till we see all this with our eyes, we
will look upon the formula as an analogy, out of which we can devise a
lesson for immediate use. You stand for A, Charlotte, and I am your B;
really and truly I cling to you, I depend on you, and follow you, just as B
does with A. C is obviously the Captain, who at present is in some degree
withdrawing me from you. So now it is only just that if you are not to be
left to solitude a D should be found for you, and that is unquestionably the
amiable little lady, Ottilie. You will not hesitate any longer to send and fetch
her."

"Good," replied Charlotte; "although the example does not, in my
opinion, exactly fit our case. However, we have been fortunate, at any rate,
in today for once having met all together; and these natural or elective
affinities have served to unite us more intimately. I will tell you, that since
this afternoon I have made up my mind to send for Ottilie. My faithful
housekeeper, on whom I have hitherto depended for everything, is going to
leave me shortly, to be married. (It was done at my own suggestion, I

believe, to please me.) What it is which has decided me about Ottilie, you
shall read to me. I will not look over the pages again. Indeed, the contents
of them are already known to me. Only read, read!"

With these words, she produced a letter, and handed it to Edward.

CHAPTER V

LETTER OF THE LADY SUPERIOR

"Your ladyship will forgive the brevity of my present letter. The public
examinations are but just concluded, and I have to communicate to all the
parents and guardians the progress which our pupils have made during the
past year. To you I may well be brief, having to say much in few words.
Your ladyship's daughter has proved herself first in every sense of the word.
The testimonials which I inclose, and her own letter, in which she will
detail to you the prizes which she has won, and the happiness which she
feels in her success, will surely please, and I hope delight you. For myself,
it is the less necessary that I should say much, because I see that there will
soon be no more occasion to keep with us a young lady so far advanced. I
send my respects to your ladyship, and in a short time I shall take the liberty
of offering you my opinion as to what in future may be of most advantage
to her.

"My good assistant will tell you about Ottilie."

LETTER OF THE ASSISTANT.

"Our reverend superior leaves it to me to write to you of Ottilie, partly
because, with her ways of thinking about it, it would be painful to her to say

what has to be said; partly, because she herself requires some excusing,
which she would rather have done for her by me.

"Knowing, as I did too well, how little able the good Ottilie was to show
out what lies in her, and what she is capable of, I was all along afraid of this
public examination. I was the more uneasy, as it was to be of a kind which
does not admit of any especial preparation; and even if it had been
conducted as usual, Ottilie never can be prepared to make a display. The
result has only too entirely justified my anxiety. She has gained no prize;
she is not even amongst those whose names have been mentioned with
approbation. I need not go into details. In writing, the letters of the other
girls were not so well formed, but their strokes were far more free. In
arithmetic, they were all quicker than she; and in the more difficult
problems, which she does the best, there was no examination. In French,
she was outshone and out-talked by many; and in history she was not ready
with her names and dates. In geography, there was a want of attention to the
political divisions; and for what she could do in music there was neither
time nor quiet enough for her few modest melodies to gain attention. In
drawing she certainly would have gained the prize; her outlines were clear,
and the execution most careful and full of spirit; unhappily, she had chosen
too large a subject, and it was incomplete.

"After the pupils were dismissed, the examiners consulted together, and
we teachers were partially admitted into the council. I very soon observed
that of Ottilie either nothing would be said at all, or if her name was
mentioned, it would be with indifference, if not absolute disapproval. I
hoped to obtain some favor for her by a candid description of what she was,
and I ventured it with the greater earnestness, partly because I was only
speaking my real convictions, and partly because I remembered in my own
younger years finding myself in the same unfortunate case. I was listened to
with attention, but as soon as I had ended, the presiding examiner said to

me very kindly but laconically, 'We presume capabilities: they are to be
converted into accomplishments. This is the aim of all education. It is what
is distinctly intended by all who have the care of children, and silently and
indistinctly by the children themselves. This also is the object of
examinations, where teachers and pupils are alike standing their trial. From
what we learn of you, we may entertain good hopes of the young lady, and
it is to your own credit also that you have paid so much attention to your
pupil's capabilities. If in the coming year you can develop these into
accomplishments, neither yourself nor your pupil shall fail to receive your
due praise.'

"I had made up my mind to what must follow upon all this; but there was
something worse that I had not anticipated, which had soon to be added to
it. Our good Superior, who like a trusty shepherdess could not bear to have
one of her flock lost, or, as was the case here, to see it undistinguished, after
the examiners were gone could not contain her displeasure, and said to
Ottilie, who was standing quite quietly by the window, while the others
were exulting over their prizes: 'Tell me, for heaven's sake, how can a
person look so stupid if she is not so?' Ottilie replied, quite calmly, 'Forgive
me, my dear mother, I have my headache again today, and it is very painful.'
Kind and sympathizing as she generally is, the Superior this time answered,
'No one can believe that,' and turned angrily away.

"Now it is true—no one can believe it—for Ottilie never alters the
expression of her countenance. I have never even seen her move her hand to
her head when she has been asleep.

"Nor was this all. Your ladyship's daughter, who is at all times
sufficiently lively and impetuous, after her triumph today was overflowing
with the violence of her spirits. She ran from room to room with her prizes
and testimonials, and shook them in Ottilie's face. 'You have come badly off

this morning,' she cried. Ottilie replied in her calm, quiet way, 'This is not
the last day of trial.' 'But you will always remain the last,' cried the other,
and ran away.

"No one except myself saw that Ottilie was disturbed. She has a way
when she experiences any sharp unpleasant emotion which she wishes to
resist, of showing it in the unequal color of her face; the left cheek becomes
for a moment flushed, while the right turns pale. I perceived this symptom,
and I could not prevent myself from saying something. I took our Superior
aside, and spoke seriously to her about it. The excellent lady acknowledged
that she had been wrong. We considered the whole affair; we talked it over
at great length together, and not to weary your ladyship, I will tell you at
once the desire with which we concluded, namely, that you will for a while
have Ottilie with yourself. Our reasons you will yourself readily perceive. If
you consent, I will say more to you on the manner in which I think she
should be treated. The young lady your daughter we may expect will soon
leave us, and we shall then with pleasure welcome Ottilie back to us.

"One thing more, which another time I might forget to mention: I have
never seen Ottilie eager for anything, or at least ask pressingly for anything.
But there have been occasions, however rare, when on the other hand she
has wished to decline things which have been pressed upon her, and she
does it with a gesture which to those who have caught its meaning is
irresistible. She raises her hands, presses the palms together, and draws
them against her breast, leaning her body a little forward at the same time,
and turns such a look upon the person who is urging her that he will be glad
enough to cease to ask or wish for anything of her. If your ladyship ever
sees this attitude, as with your treatment of her it is not likely that you will,
think of me, and spare Ottilie."

Edward read these letters aloud, not without smiles and shakes of the
head. Naturally, too, there were observations made on the persons and on
the position of the affair.

"Enough!" Edward cried at last, "it is decided. She comes. You, my love,
are provided for, and now we can get forward with our work. It is becoming
highly necessary for me to move over to the right wing to the Captain;
evenings and mornings are the time for us best to work together, and then
you, on your side, will have admirable room for yourself and Ottilie."

Charlotte made no objection, and Edward sketched out the method in
which they should live. Among other things, he cried, "It is really very
polite in this niece to be subject to a slight pain on the left side of her head.
I have it frequently an the right. If we happen to be afflicted together, and
sit opposite one another—I leaning on my right elbow, and she on her left,
and our heads on the opposite sides, resting on our hands—what a pretty
pair of pictures we shall make."

The Captain thought that might be dangerous. "No, no!" cried out
Edward. "Only do you, my dear friend, take care of the D, for what will
become of B, if poor C is taken away from it?"

"That, I should have thought, would have been evident enough," replied
Charlotte.

"And it is, indeed," cried Edward; "he would turn back to his A, to his
Alpha and Omega;" and he sprung up and taking Charlotte in his arms,
pressed her to his breast.

CHAPTER VI

The carriage which brought Ottilie drove up to the door. Charlotte went out
to receive her. The dear girl ran to meet her, threw herself at her feet, and
embraced her knees.

"Why such humility?" said Charlotte, a little embarrassed, and
endeavoring to raise her from the ground.

"It is not meant for humility," Ottilie answered, without moving from the
position in which she had placed herself; "I am only thinking of the time
when I could not reach higher than to your knees, and when I had just learnt
to know how you loved me."

She stood up, and Charlotte embraced her warmly. She was introduced to
the gentlemen, and was at once treated with especial courtesy as a visitor.
Beauty is a welcome guest everywhere. She appeared attentive to the
conversation, without taking a part in it.

The next morning Edward said to Charlotte, "What an agreeable,
entertaining girl she is!"

"Entertaining!" answered Charlotte, with a smile; "why, she has not
opened her lips yet!"

"Indeed!" said Edward, as he seemed to bethink himself; "that is very
strange."

Charlotte had to give the new-comer but a very few hints on the
management of the household. Ottilie saw rapidly all the arrangements, and
what was more, she felt them. She comprehended easily what was to be
provided for the whole party, and what for each particular member of it.
Everything was done with the utmost punctuality; she knew how to direct,
without appearing to be giving orders, and when any one had left anything
undone, she at once set it right herself.

As soon as she had found how much time she would have to spare, she
begged Charlotte to divide her hours for her, and to these she adhered
exactly. She worked at what was set before her in the way which the
Assistant had described to Charlotte. They let her alone. It was but seldom
that Charlotte interfered. Sometimes she changed her pens for others which
had been written with, to teach her to make bolder strokes in her
handwriting, but these, she found, would be soon cut sharp and fine again.

The ladies had agreed with one another when they were alone to speak
nothing but French, and Charlotte persisted in it the more, as she found
Ottilie more ready to talk in a foreign language, when she was told it was
her duty to exercise herself in it. In this way she often said more than she
seemed to intend. Charlotte was particularly pleased with a description,
most complete, but at the same time most charming and amiable, which she
gave her one day, by accident, of the school. She soon felt her to be a
delightful companion, and before long she hoped to find in her an attached
friend.

At the same time she looked over again the more early accounts which
had been sent her of Ottilie, to refresh her recollection with the opinion
which the Superior and the Assistant had formed about her, and compare

them with her in her own person. For Charlotte was of opinion that we
cannot too quickly become acquainted with the character of those with
whom we have to live, that we may know what to expect of them; where we
may hope to do anything in the way of improvement with them, and what
we must make up our minds, once for all, to tolerate and let alone.

[Illustration: CHARLOTTE RECEIVES OTTILIE]

This examination led her to nothing new, indeed; but much which she
already knew became of greater meaning and importance. Ottilie's
moderation in eating and drinking, for instance, became a real distress to
her.

The next thing on which the ladies were employed was Ottilie's toilet.
Charlotte wished her to appear in clothes of a richer and more recherché
sort, and at once the clever active girl herself cut out the stuff which had
been previously sent to her, and with a very little assistance from others was
able, in a short time, to dress herself out most tastefully. The new
fashionable dresses set off her figure. An agreeable person, it is true, will
show through all disguises; but we always fancy it looks fresher and more
graceful when its peculiarities appear under some new drapery. And thus,
from the moment of her first appearance, she became more and more a
delight to the eyes of all who beheld her. As the emerald refreshes the sight
with its beautiful hues, and exerts, it is said, a beneficent influence on that
noble sense, so does human beauty work with far larger potency on the
outward and on the inward sense; whoever looks upon it is charmed against
the breath of evil, and feels in harmony with himself and with the world.

In many ways, therefore, the party had gained by Ottilie's arrival. The
Captain and Edward kept regularly to the hours, even to the minutes, for
their general meeting together. They never kept the others waiting for them
either for dinner or tea, or for their walks; and they were in less haste,

especially in the evenings, to leave the table. This did not escape Charlotte's
observation; she watched them both, to see whether one more than the other
was the occasion of it. But she could not perceive any difference. They had
both become more companionable. In their conversation they seemed to
consider what was best adapted to interest Ottilie; what was most on a level
with her capacities and her general knowledge. If she left the room when
they were reading or telling stories, they would wait till she returned. They
had grown softer and altogether more united.

In return for this, Ottilie's anxiety to be of use increased every day; the
more she came to understand the house, its inmates, and their
circumstances, the more eagerly she entered into everything, caught every
look and every motion; half a word, a sound, was enough for her. With her
calm attentiveness, and her easy, unexcited activity, she was always the
same. Sitting, rising up, going, coming, fetching, carrying, returning to her
place again, it was all in the most perfect repose; a constant change, a
constant agreeable movement; while, at the same time, she went about so
lightly that her step was almost inaudible.

This cheerful obligingness in Ottilie gave Charlotte the greatest pleasure.
There was one thing, however, which she did not exactly like, of which she
had to speak to her. "It is very polite in you," she said one day to her, "when
people let anything fall from their hand, to be so quick in stooping and
picking it up for them; at the same time, it is a sort of confession that they
have a right to require such attention, and in the world we are expected to
be careful to whom we pay it. Toward women, I will not prescribe any rule
as to how you should conduct yourself. You are young. To those above you,
and older than you, services of this sort are a duty; toward your equals they
are polite; to those younger than yourself and your inferiors you may show
yourself kind and good-natured by such things—only it is not becoming in
a young lady to do them for men."

"I will try to forget the habit," replied Ottilie; "I think, however, you will
in the meantime forgive me for my want of manners, when I tell you how I
came by it. We were taught history at school; I have not gained as much out
of it as I ought, for I never knew what use I was to make of it; a few little
things, however, made a deep impression upon me, among which was the
following: When Charles the First of England was standing before his so-
called judges, the gold top came off the stick which he had in his hand, and
fell down. Accustomed as he had been on such occasions to have everything
done for him, he seemed to look around and expect that this time too some
one would do him this little service. No one stirred, and he stooped down
for it himself. It struck me as so piteous, that from that moment I have never
been able to see any one let a thing fall, without myself picking it up. But,
of course, as it is not always proper, and as I cannot," she continued,
smiling, "tell my story every time I do it, in future I will try to contain
myself."

In the meantime the fine arrangements which the two friends had been
led to make for themselves, went uninterruptedly forward. Every day they
found something new to think about and undertake.

One day as they were walking together through the village, they had to
remark with dissatisfaction how far behind-hand it was in order and
cleanliness, compared to villages where the inhabitants were compelled by
the expense of building-ground to be careful about such things.

"You remember a wish we once expressed when we were traveling in
Switzerland together," said the Captain, "that we might have the laying out
of some country park, and how beautiful we would make it by introducing
into some village situated like this, not the Swiss style of building, but the
Swiss order and neatness which so much improve it."

"And how well it would answer here! The hill on which the castle stands,
slopes down to that projecting angle. The village, you see, is built in a
semicircle, regularly enough, just opposite to it. The brook runs between. It
is liable to floods; and do observe the way the people set about protecting
themselves from them; one with stones, another with stakes; the next puts
up a boarding, and a fourth tries beams and planks; no one, of course, doing
any good to another with his arrangement, but only hurting himself and the
rest too. And then there is the road going along just in the clumsiest way
possible,—up hill and down, through the water, and over the stones. If the
people would only lay their hands to the business together, it would cost
them nothing but a little labor to run a semi-circular wall along here, take
the road in behind it, raising it to the level of the houses, and so give
themselves a fair open space in front, making the whole place clean, and
getting rid, once for all, in one good general work, of all their little trifling
ineffectual makeshifts."

"Let us try it," said the Captain, as he ran his eyes over the lay of the
ground, and saw quickly what was to be done.

"I can undertake nothing in company with peasants and shopkeepers,"
replied Edward, "unless I may have unrestricted authority over them."

"You are not so wrong in that," returned the Captain; "I have experienced
too much trouble myself in life in matters of that kind. How difficult it is to
prevail on a man to venture boldly on making a sacrifice for an after-
advantage! How hard to get him to desire an end, and not hesitate at the
means! So many people confuse means with ends; they keep hanging over
the first, without having the other before their eyes. Every evil is to be
cured at the place where it comes to the surface, and they will not trouble
themselves to look for the cause which produces it, or the remote effect
which results from it. This is why it is so difficult to get advice listened to,

especially among the many: they can see clearly enough from day to day,
but their scope seldom reaches beyond the morrow; and if it comes to a
point where with some general arrangement one person will gain while
another will lose, there is no prevailing on them to strike a balance. Works
of public advantage can be carried through only by an uncontrolled absolute
authority."

While they were standing and talking, a man came up and begged of
them. He looked more impudent than really in want, and Edward, who was
annoyed at being interrupted, after two or three fruitless attempts to get rid
of him by a gentler refusal, spoke sharply to him. The fellow began to
grumble and mutter abusively; he went off with short steps, talking about
the right of beggars. It was all very well to refuse them an alms, but that
was no reason why they should be insulted. A beggar, and everybody else
too, was as much under God's protection as a lord. It put Edward out of all
patience.

The Captain, to pacify him, said, "Let us make use of this as an occasion
for extending our rural police arrangements to such cases. We are bound to
give away money, but we do better in not giving it in person, especially at
home. We should be moderate and uniform in everything, in our charities as
in all else; too great liberality attracts beggars instead of helping them on
their way. At the same time there is no harm when one is on a journey, or
passing through a strange place, in appearing to a poor man in the street in
the form of a chance deity of fortune and making him some present which
shall surprise him. The position of the village and of the castle makes it
easy for us to put our charities here on a proper footing. I have thought
about it before. The public-house is at one end of the village, a respectable
old couple live at the other. At each of these places deposit a small sum of
money, and let every beggar, not as he comes in, but as he goes out, receive

something. Both houses lie on the roads which lead to the castle, so that any
one who goes there can be referred to one or the other."

"Come," said Edward, "we will settle that on the spot. The exact sum can
be made up another time."

They went to the innkeeper, and to the old couple and the thing was done.

"I know very well," Edward said, as they were walking up the hill to the
castle together, "that everything in this world depends on distinctness of
idea and firmness of purpose. Your judgment of what my wife has been
doing in the park was entirely right; and you have already given me a hint
how it might be improved. I will not deny that I told her of it."

"So I have been led to suspect," replied the Captain; "and I could not
approve of your having done so. You have perplexed her. She has left off
doing anything; and on this one subject she is vexed with us. She avoids
speaking of it. She has never since invited us to go with her to the summer-
house, although at odd hours she goes up there with Ottilie."

"We must not allow ourselves to be deterred by that," answered Edward.
"If I am once convinced about anything good, which could and should be
done, I can never rest till I see it done. We are clever enough at other times
in introducing what we want, into the general conversation; suppose we
have out some descriptions of English parks, with copper-plates, for our
evening's amusement. Then we can follow with your plan. We will treat it
first problematically, and as if we were only in jest. There will be no
difficulty in passing into earnest."

The scheme was concerted, and the books were opened. In each group of
designs they first saw a ground-plan of the spot, with the general character
of the landscape, drawn in its rude, natural state. Then followed others,

showing the changes which had been produced by art, to employ and set off
the natural advantages of the locality. From these to their own property and
their own grounds, the transition was easy.

Everybody was pleased. The chart which the Captain had sketched was
brought and spread out. The only difficulty was, that they could not entirely
free themselves of the plan in which Charlotte had begun. However, an
easier way up the hill was found; a lodge was suggested to be built on the
height at the edge of the cliff, which was to have an especial reference to
the castle. It was to form a conspicuous object from the castle windows, and
from it the spectator was to be able to overlook both the castle and the
garden.

The Captain had thought it all carefully over, and taken his
measurements; and now he brought up again the village road and the wall
by the brook, and the ground which was to be raised behind it.

"Here you see," said he, "while I make this charming walk up the height,
I gain exactly the quantity of stone which I require for that wall. Let one
piece of work help the other, and both will be carried out most satisfactorily
and most rapidly."

"But now," said Charlotte, "comes my side of the business. A certain
definite outlay of money will have to be made. We ought to know how
much will be wanted for such a purpose, and then we can apportion it out—
so much work, and so much money, if not by weeks, at least by months.
The cash-box is under my charge. I pay the bills, and I keep the accounts."

"You do not appear to have overmuch confidence in us," said Edward.

"I have not much in arbitrary matters," Charlotte answered. "Where it is a
case of inclination, we women know better how to control ourselves than

you."

It was settled; the dispositions were made, and the work was begun at
once.

The Captain being always on the spot, Charlotte was almost daily a
witness to the strength and clearness of his understanding. He, too, learnt to
know her better; and it became easy for them both to work together, and
thus bring something to completeness. It is with work as with dancing;
persons who keep the same step must grow indispensable to one another.
Out of this a mutual kindly feeling will necessarily arise; and that Charlotte
had a real kind feeling toward the Captain, after she came to know him
better, was sufficiently proved by her allowing him to destroy her pretty
seat, which in her first plans she had taken such pains in ornamenting,
because it was in the lay of his own, without experiencing the slightest
feeling about the matter.

CHAPTER VII

Now that Charlotte was occupied with the Captain, it was a natural
consequence that Edward should attach himself more to Ottilie.
Independently of this, indeed, for some time past he had begun to feel a
silent kind of attraction toward her. Obliging and attentive she was to every
one, but his self-love whispered that toward him she was particularly so.
She had observed his little fancies about his food. She knew exactly what
things he liked, and the way in which he liked them to be prepared; the
quantity of sugar which he liked in his tea; and so on. Moreover, she was
particularly careful to prevent draughts, about which he was excessively
sensitive, and, indeed, about which, with his wife, who could never have air
enough, he was often at variance. So, too, she had come to know about
fruit-gardens and flower-gardens; whatever he liked, it was her constant
effort to procure for him, and to keep away whatever annoyed him; so that
very soon she grew indispensable to him—she became like his guardian
angel, and he felt it keenly whenever she was absent. Besides all this, too,
she appeared to grow more open and conversible as soon as they were alone
together.

Edward, as he advanced in life, had retained something childish about
himself, which corresponded singularly well with the youthfulness of
Ottilie. They liked talking of early times, when they had first seen each
other; and these reminiscences led them up to the first epoch of Edward's

affection for Charlotte. Ottilie declared that she remembered them both as
the handsomest pair about the court; and when Edward would question the
possibility of this, when she must have been so exceedingly young, she
insisted that she recollected one particular incident as clearly as possible.
He had come into the room where her aunt was, and she had hid her face in
Charlotte's lap—not from fear, but from a childish surprise. She might have
added, because he had made so strong an impression upon her—because
she had liked him so much.

While they were occupied in this way, much of the business which the
two friends had undertaken together had come to a standstill; so that they
found it necessary to inspect how things were going on—to work up a few
designs and get letters written. For this purpose, they betook themselves to
their office, where they found their old copyist at his desk. They set
themselves to their work, and soon gave the old man enough to do, without
observing that they were laying many things on his shoulders which at other
times they had always done for themselves. At the same time, the first
design the Captain tried would not answer, and Edward was as unsuccessful
with his first letter. They fretted for a while, planning and erasing, till at last
Edward, who was getting on the worst, asked what o'clock it was. And then
it appeared that the Captain had forgotten, for the first time for many years,
to wind up his chronometer; and they seemed, if not to feel, at least to have
a dim perception, that time was beginning to be indifferent to them.

In the meanwhile, as the gentlemen were thus rather slackening in their
energy, the activity of the ladies increased all the more. The every-day life
of a family, which is composed of given persons, and is shaped out of
necessary circumstances, may easily receive into itself an extraordinary
affection, an incipient passion—may receive it into itself as into a vessel;
and a long time may elapse before the new ingredient produces a visible
effervescence, and runs foaming over the edge.

With our friends, the feelings which were mutually arising had the most
agreeable effects. Their dispositions opened out, and a general goodwill
arose out of the several individual affections. Every member of the party
was happy; and they each shared their happiness with the rest.

Such a temper elevates the spirit, while it enlarges the heart, and
everything which, under the influence of it, people do and undertake, has a
tendency toward the illimitable. The friends could not remain any more shut
up at home; their walks extended themselves further and further. Edward
would hurry on before with Ottilie, to choose the path or pioneer the way;
and the Captain and Charlotte would follow quietly on the track of their
more hasty precursors, talking on some grave subject, or delighting
themselves with some spot they had newly discovered, or some unexpected
natural beauty.

One day their walk led them down from the gate at the right wing of the
castle, in the direction of the hotel, and thence over the bridge toward the
ponds, along the sides of which they proceeded as far as it was generally
thought possible to follow the water; thickly wooded hills sloped directly up
from the edge, and beyond these a wall of steep rocks, making further
progress difficult, if not impossible. But Edward, whose hunting experience
had made him thoroughly familiar with the spot, pushed forward along an
overgrown path with Ottilie, knowing well that the old mill could not be far
off, which was somewhere in the middle of the rocks there. The path was so
little frequented, that they soon lost it; and for a short time they were
wandering among mossy stones and thickets; it was not for long, however,
the noise of the water-wheel speedily telling them that the place which they
were looking for was close at hand. Stepping forward on a point of rock,
they saw the strange old, dark, wooden building in the hollow before them,
quite shadowed over with precipitous crags and huge trees. They
determined directly to climb down amidst the moss and the blocks of stone.

Edward led the way; and when he looked back and saw Ottilie following,
stepping lightly, without fear or nervousness, from stone to stone, so
beautifully balancing herself, he fancied he was looking at some celestial
creature floating above him; while if, as she often did, she caught the hand
which in some difficult spot he would offer her, or if she supported herself
on his shoulder, then he was left in no doubt that it was a very exquisite
human creature who touched him. He almost wished that she might slip or
stumble, that he might catch her in his arms and press her to his heart. This,
however, he would under no circumstances have done, for more than one
reason. He was afraid to wound her, and he was afraid to do her some
bodily injury.

[Illustration: EDWARD AND OTTILIE]

What the meaning of this could be, we shall immediately learn. When
they had got down, and were seated opposite each other at a table under the
trees, and when the miller's wife had gone for milk, and the miller, who had
come out to them, was sent to meet Charlotte and the Captain, Edward, with
a little embarrassment, began to speak:

"I have a request to make, dear Ottilie; you will forgive me for asking it,
if you will not grant it. You make no secret (I am sure you need not make
any), that you wear a miniature under your dress against your breast. It is
the picture of your noble father. You could hardly have known him; but in
every sense he deserves a place by your heart. Only, forgive me, the picture
is exceedingly large, and the metal frame and the glass, if you take up a
child in your arms, if you are carrying anything, if the carriage swings
violently, if we are pushing through bushes, or just now, as we were coming
down these rocks—cause me a thousand anxieties for you. Any unforeseen
blow, a fall, a touch, may be fatally injurious to you; and I am terrified at
the possibility of it. For my sake do this: put away the picture, not out of

your affections, not out of your room; let it have the brightest, the holiest
place which you can give it; only do not wear upon your breast a thing, the
presence of which seems to me, perhaps from an extravagant anxiety, so
dangerous."

Ottilie said nothing, and while he was speaking she kept her eyes fixed
straight before her; then, without hesitation and without haste, with a look
turned more toward heaven than on Edward, she unclasped the chain, drew
out the picture, and pressed it against her forehead, and then reached it over
to her friend, with the words:

"Do you keep it for me till we come home; I cannot give you a better
proof how deeply I thank you for your affectionate care."

He did not venture to press the picture to his lips; but he caught her hand
and raised it to his eyes. They were, perhaps, two of the most beautiful
hands which had ever been clasped together. He felt as if a stone had fallen
from his heart, as if a partition-wall had been thrown down between him
and Ottilie.

Under the miller's guidance, Charlotte and the Captain came down by an
easier path, and now joined them. There was the meeting, and a happy talk,
and then they took some refreshments. They would not return by the same
way as they came; and Edward struck into a rocky path on the other side of
the stream, from which the ponds were again to be seen. They made their
way along it, with some effort, and then had to cross a variety of wood and
copse—getting glimpses, on the land side, of a number of villages and
manor-houses, with their green lawns and fruit-gardens; while very near
them, and sweetly situated on a rising ground, a farm lay in the middle of
the wood. From a gentle ascent, they had a view, before and behind, which
showed them the richness of the country to the greatest advantage; and then,

entering a grove of trees, they found themselves, on again emerging from it,
on the rock opposite the castle.

They came upon it rather unexpectedly, and were of course delighted.
They had made the circuit of a little world; they were standing on the spot
where the new building was to be erected, and were looking again at the
windows of their home.

They went down to the summer-house, and sat all four in it for the first
time together; nothing was more natural than that with one voice it should
be proposed to have the way they had been that day, and which, as it was,
had taken them much time and trouble, properly laid out and gravelled, so
that people might loiter along it at their leisure. They each said what they
thought; and they reckoned up that the circuit, over which they had taken
many hours, might be traveled easily with a good road all the way round to
the castle, in a single one.

Already a plan was being suggested for making the distance shorter, and
adding a fresh beauty to the landscape, by throwing a bridge across the
stream, below the mill, where it ran into the lake; when Charlotte brought
their inventive imagination somewhat to a standstill, by putting them in
mind of the expense which such an undertaking would involve.

"There are ways of meeting that too," replied Edward; "we have only to
dispose of that farm in the forest which is so pleasantly situated, and which
brings in so little in the way of rent: the sum which will be set free will
more than cover what we shall require, and thus, having gained an
invaluable walk, we shall receive the interest of well-expended capital in
substantial enjoyment—instead of, as now, in the summing up at the end of
the year, vexing and fretting ourselves over the pitiful little income which is
returned for it."

Even Charlotte, with all her prudence, had little to urge against this.
There had been, indeed, a previous intention of selling the farm. The
Captain was ready immediately with a plan for breaking up the ground into
small portions among the peasantry of the forest. Edward, however, had a
simpler and shorter way of managing it. His present steward had already
proposed to take it off his hands—he was to pay for it by instalments—and
so, gradually, as the money came in, they would get their work forward
from point to point.

So reasonable and prudent a scheme was sure of universal approbation,
and already, in prospect, they began to see their new walk winding along its
way, and to imagine the many beautiful views and charming spots which
they hoped to discover in its neighborhood.

To bring it all before themselves with greater fulness of detail, in the
evening they produced the new chart. With the help of this they went over
again the way that they had come, and found various places where the walk
might take a rather different direction with advantage. Their other scheme
was now once more talked through, and connected with the fresh design.
The site for the new house in the park, opposite the castle, was a second
time examined into and approved, and fixed upon for the termination of the
intended circuit.

Ottilie had said nothing all this time. At length Edward pushed the chart,
which had hitherto been lying before Charlotte, across to her, begging her to
give her opinion; she still hesitated for a moment. Edward in his gentlest
way again pressed her to let them know what she thought—nothing had as
yet been settled—it was all as yet in embryo.

"I would have the house built here," she said, as she pointed with her
finger to the highest point of the slope on the hill. "It is true you cannot see
the castle from thence, for it is hidden by the wood; but for that very reason

you find yourself in another quite new world; you lose village and houses
and all at the same time. The view of the ponds with the mill, and the hills
and mountains in the distance, is singularly beautiful—I have often
observed it when I have been there."

"She is right," Edward cried; "how could we have overlooked it. This is
what you mean, Ottilie, is it not?" He took a lead pencil, and drew a great
black rectangular figure on the summit of the hill.

It went through the Captain's soul to see his carefully and clearly-drawn
chart disfigured in such a way. He collected himself, however, after a slight
expression of his disapproval and went into the idea. "Ottilie is right," he
said; "we are ready enough to walk any distance to drink tea or eat fish,
because they would not have tasted as well at home—we require change of
scene and change of objects. Your ancestors showed their judgment in the
spot which they chose for the castle; for it is sheltered from the wind, with
the conveniences of life close at hand. A place, on the contrary, which is
more for pleasure parties than for a regular residence, may be very well
yonder there, and in the fair time of year the most agreeable hours may be
spent there."

[Illustration: CHARLOTTE, OTTILIE, EDWARD AND THE CAPTAIN
DISCUSS THE
NEW PLAN OF THE HOUSE From the Painting by Franz Simm]

The more they talked it over, the more conclusive was their judgment in
favor of Ottilie; and Edward could not conceal his triumph that the thought
had been hers. He was as proud as if he had hit upon it himself.

CHAPTER VIII

Early the following morning the Captain examined the spot: he first threw
off a sketch of what should be done, and afterward, when the thing had been
more completely decided on, he made a complete design, with accurate
calculations and measurements. It cost him a good deal of labor, and the
business connected with the sale of the farm had to be gone into, so that
both the gentlemen now found a fresh impulse to activity.

The Captain made Edward observe that it would be proper, indeed that it
would be a kind of duty, to celebrate Charlotte's birthday with laying the
foundation-stone. Not much was wanted to overcome Edward's
disinclination for such festivities—for he quickly recollected that a little
later Ottilie's birthday would follow, and that he could have a magnificent
celebration for that.

Charlotte, to whom all this work and what it would involve was a subject
for much serious and almost anxious thought, busied herself in carefully
going through the time and outlay which it was calculated would be
expended on it. During the day they rarely saw each other, so that the
evening meeting was looked forward to with all the more anxiety.

Ottilie meantime was complete mistress of the household—and how
could it be otherwise, with her quick methodical rays of working? Indeed,
her whole mode of thought was suited better to home life than to the world,

and to a more free existence. Edward soon observed that she only walked
about with them out of a desire to please; that when she stayed out late with
them in the evening it was because she thought it a sort of social duty, and
that she would often find a pretext in some household matter for going in
again—consequently he soon managed so to arrange the walks which they
took together, that they should be at home before sunset; and he began
again, what he had long left off, to read aloud poetry—particularly such as
had for its subject the expression of a pure but passionate love.

They ordinarily sat in the evening in the same places round a small table
—Charlotte on the sofa, Ottilie on a chair opposite to her, and the
gentlemen on each side. Ottilie's place was on Edward's right, the side
where he put the candle when he was reading—at such times she would
draw her chair a little nearer to look over him, for Ottilie also trusted her
own eyes better than another person's lips, and Edward would then always
make a move toward her, that it might be as easy as possible for her—
indeed he would frequently make longer stops than necessary, that he might
not turn over before she had got to the bottom of the page.

Charlotte and the Captain observed this, and exchanged many a quiet
smile at it; but they were both taken by surprise at another symptom, in
which Ottilie's latent feeling accidentally displayed itself.

One evening, which had been partly spoilt for them by a tedious visit,
Edward proposed that they should not separate so early—he felt inclined for
music—he would take his flute, which he had not done for many days past.
Charlotte looked for the sonatas which they generally played together, and
they were not to be found. Ottilie, with some hesitation, said that they were
in her room—she had taken them there to copy them.

"And you can, you will, accompany me on the piano?" cried Edward, his
eyes sparkling with pleasure. "I think perhaps I can," Ottilie answered. She

brought the music and sat down to the instrument. The others listened, and
were sufficiently surprised to hear how perfectly Ottilie had taught herself
the piece—but far more surprised were they at the way in which she
contrived to adapt herself to Edward's style of playing. Adapt herself, is not
the right expression—Charlotte's skill and power enabled her, in order to
please her husband, to keep up with him when he went too fast, and hold in
for him if he hesitated; but Ottilie, who had several times heard them play
the sonata together, seemed to have learnt it according to the idea in which
they accompanied each other—she had so completely made his defects her
own, that a kind of living whole resulted from it, which did not move
indeed according to exact rule, but the effect of which was in the highest
degree pleasant and delightful. The composer himself would have been
pleased to hear his work disfigured in a manner so charming.

Charlotte and the Captain watched this strange unexpected occurrence in
silence, with the kind of feeling with which we often observe the actions of
children—unable exactly to approve of them, from the serious
consequences which may follow, and yet without being able to find fault,
perhaps with a kind of envy. For, indeed, the regard of these two for one
another was growing also, as well as that of the others—and it was perhaps
only the more perilous because they were both stronger, more certain of
themselves, and better able to restrain themselves.

The Captain had already begun to feel that a habit which he could not
resist was threatening to bind him to Charlotte. He forced himself to stay
away at the hour when she commonly used to be at the works; by getting up
very early in the morning he contrived to finish there whatever he had to do,
and went back to the castle to his work in his own room. The first day or
two Charlotte thought it was an accident—she looked for him in every
place where she thought he could possibly be. Then she thought she
understood him—and admired him all the more.

Avoiding, as the Captain now did, being alone with Charlotte, the more
industriously did he labor to hurry forward the preparations for keeping her
rapidly-approaching birthday with all splendor. While he was bringing up
the new road from below behind the village, he made the men, under
pretence that he wanted stones, begin working at the top as well, and work
down, to meet the others; and he had calculated his arrangements so that the
two should exactly meet on the eve of the day. The excavations for the new
house were already done; the rock was blown away with gunpowder; and a
fair foundation-stone had been hewn, with a hollow chamber, and a flat slab
adjusted to cover it.

This outward activity, these little mysterious purposes of friendship,
prompted by feelings which more or less they were obliged to repress,
rather prevented the little party when together from being as lively as usual.
Edward, who felt that there was a sort of void, one evening called upon the
Captain to fetch his violin—Charlotte should play the piano, and he should
accompany her. The Captain was unable to refuse the general request, and
they executed together one of the most difficult pieces of music with an
ease, and freedom, and feeling, which could not but afford themselves, and
the two who were listening to them, the greatest delight. They promised
themselves a frequent repetition of it, as well as further practice together.
"They do it better than we, Ottilie," said Edward; "we will admire them—
but we can enjoy ourselves together too."

CHAPTER IX

The birthday was come, and everything was ready. The wall was all
complete which protected the raised village road against the water, and so
was the walk; passing the church, for a short time it followed the path
which had been laid out by Charlotte, and then winding upward among the
rocks, inclined first under the summer-house to the right, and then, after a
wide sweep, passed back above it to the right again, and so by degrees out
on to the summit. A large party had assembled for the occasion. They went
first to church, where they found the whole congregation assembled in their
holiday dresses. After service, they filed out in order; first the boys, then the
young men, then the old; after them came the party from the castle, with
their visitors and retinue; and the village maidens, young girls, and women,
brought up the rear.

At the turn of the walk, a raised stone seat had been contrived, where the
Captain made Charlotte and the visitors stop and rest. From here they could
see over the whole distance from the beginning to the end—the troops of
men who had gone up before them, the file of women following, and now
drawing up to where they were. It was lovely weather, and the whole effect
was singularly beautiful. Charlotte was taken by surprise, she was touched,
and she pressed the Captain's hand warmly.

They followed the crowd who had slowly ascended, and were now
forming a circle round the spot where the future house was to stand. The

lord of the castle, his family, and the principal strangers were now invited to
descend into the vault, where the foundation-stone, supported on one side,
lay ready to be let down. A well-dressed mason, a trowel in one hand and a
hammer in the other, came forward, and with much grace spoke an address
in verse, of which in prose we can give but an imperfect rendering.

"Three things," he began, "are to be looked to in a building—that it stand
on the right spot; that it be securely founded; that it be successfully
executed. The first is the business of the master of the house—his and his
only. As in the city the prince and the council alone determine where a
building shall be, so in the country it is the right of the lord of the soil that
he shall say, 'Here my dwelling shall stand; here, and nowhere else.'"

Edward and Ottilie were standing opposite one another, as these words
were spoken; but they did not venture to look up and exchange glances.

"To the third, the execution, there is neither art nor handicraft which must
not in some way contribute. But the second, the founding, is the province of
the mason; and, boldly to speak it out, it is the head and front of all the
undertaking—a solemn thing it is—and our bidding you descend hither is
full of meaning. You are celebrating your Festival in the deep of the earth.
Here within this small hollow spot, you show us the honor of appearing as
witnesses of our mysterious craft. Presently we shall lower down this
carefully-hewn stone into its place; and soon these earth-walls, now
ornamented with fair and worthy persons, will be no more accessible—but
will be closed in forever!

"This foundation-stone, which with its angles typifies the just angles of
the building, with the sharpness of its molding, the regularity of it, and with
the truth of its lines to the horizontal and perpendicular, the uprightness and
equal height of all the walls, we might now without more ado let down—it
would rest in its place with its own weight. But even here there shall not fail

of lime and means to bind it. For as human beings who may be well
inclined to each other by nature, yet hold more firmly together when the
law cements them, so are stones also, whose forms may already fit together,
united far better by these binding forces. It is not seemly to be idle among
the working, and here you will not refuse to be our fellow-laborer;" with
these words he reached the trowel to Charlotte, who threw mortar with it
under the stone—several of the others were then desired to do the same, and
then it was at once let fall. Upon which the hammer was placed next in
Charlotte's, and then in the others' hands, to strike three times with it, and
conclude, in this expression, the wedlock of the stone with the earth.

"The work of the mason," went on the speaker, "now under the free sky
as we are, if it be not done in concealment, yet must pass into concealment
—the soil will be laid smoothly in, and thrown over this stone, and with the
walls which we rear into the daylight we in the end are seldom
remembered. The works of the stone-cutter and the carver remain under the
eyes; but for us it is not to complain when the plasterer blots out the last
trace of our hands, and appropriates our work to himself; when he overlays
it, and smooths it, and colors it.

"Not from regard for the opinion of others, but from respect for himself,
the mason will be faithful in his calling. There is none who has more need
to feel in himself the consciousness of what he is. When the house is
finished, when the soil is smoothed, the surface plastered over, and the
outside all overwrought with ornament, he can even penetrate through all
disguises and still recognize those exact and careful adjustments to which
the whole is indebted for its being and for its persistence.

"But as the man who commits some evil deed has to fear, that,
notwithstanding all precautions, it will one day come to light—so too must
he expect who has done some good thing in secret, that it also, in spite of

himself, will appear in the day; and therefore we make this foundation-
stone at the same time a stone of memorial. Here, in these various hollows
which have been hewn into it, many things are now to be buried, as a
witness to some far-off world—these metal cases hermetically sealed
contain documents in writing; matters of various note are engraved on these
plates; in these fair glass bottles we bury the best old wine, with a note of
the year of its vintage. We have coins too of many kinds, from the mint of
the current year. All this we have received through the liberality of him for
whom we build. There is space yet remaining, if guest or spectator desires
to offer anything to the after-world!"

After a slight pause the speaker looked round; but, as is commonly the
case on such occasions, no one was prepared; they were all taken by
surprise. At last, a merry-looking young officer set the example, and said,
"If I am to contribute anything which as yet is not to be found in this
treasure-chamber, it shall be a pair of buttons from my uniform—I don't see
why they do not deserve to go down to posterity!" No sooner said than
done, and then a number of persons found something of the same sort
which they could do; the young ladies did not hesitate to throw in some of
their side hair combs—smelling bottles and other trinkets were not spared.
Only Ottilie hung back; till a kind word from Edward roused her from the
abstraction in which she was watching the various things being heaped in.
Then she unclasped from her neck the gold chain on which her father's
picture had hung, and with a light gentle hand laid it down on the other
jewels. Edward rather disarranged the proceedings, by at once, in some
haste, having the cover let fall, and fastened down.

The young mason who had been most active through all this, again took
his place as orator, and went on: "We lay down this stone for ever, for the
establishing the present and the future possessors of this house. But in that
we bury this treasure together with it, we do it in the remembrance—in this

most enduring of works—of the perishableness of all human things. We
remember that a time may come when this cover so fast sealed shall again
be lifted; and that can only be when all shall again be destroyed which as
yet we have not brought into being.

"But now—now that at once it may begin to be, back with our thoughts
out of the future—back into the present. At once, after the feast, which we
have this day kept together, let us on with our labor; let no one of all those
trades which are to work on our foundation, through us keep unwilling
holiday. Let the building rise swiftly to its height, and out of the windows,
which as yet have no existence, may the master of the house, with his
family and with his guests, look forth with a glad heart over his broad lands.
To him and to all here present herewith be health and happiness."

With these words he drained a richly cut tumbler at a draught, and flung
it into the air, thereby to signify the excess of pleasure by destroying the
vessel which had served for such a solemn occasion. This time, however, it
fell out otherwise. The glass did not fall back to the earth, and indeed
without a miracle.

In order to get forward with the buildings, they had already thrown out
the whole of the soil at the opposite corner; indeed, they had begun to raise
the wall, and for this purpose had reared a scaffold as high as was
absolutely necessary. On the occasion of the festival, boards had been laid
along the top of this, and a number of spectators were allowed to stand
there. It had been meant principally for the advantage of the workmen
themselves. The glass had flown up there, and had been caught by one of
them, who took it as a sign of good luck for himself. He waved it round
without letting it out of his hand, and the letters E and O were to be seen
very richly cut upon it, running one into the other. It was one of the glasses
which had been executed for Edward when he was a boy.

The scaffoldings were again deserted, and the most active among the
party climbed up to look round them, and could not speak enough in praise
of the beauty of the prospect on all sides. How many new discoveries does
not a person make when on some high point he ascends but a single story
higher. Inland many fresh villages came in sight. The line of the river could
be traced like a thread of silver; indeed, one of the party thought that he
distinguished the spires of the capital. On the other side, behind the wooded
hill, the blue peaks of the far-off mountains were seen rising, and the
country immediately about them was spread out like a map.

"If the three ponds," cried some one, "were but thrown together to make a
single sheet of water, there would be everything here which is noblest and
most excellent."

"That might easily be effected," the Captain said. "In early times they
must have formed all one lake among the hills here."

"Only I must beseech you to spare my clump of planes and poplars that
stand so prettily by the centre pond," said Edward. "See!" He turned to
Ottilie, bringing her a few steps forward, and pointing down—"those trees I
planted myself."

"How long have they been standing there?" asked Ottilie.

"Just about as long as you have been in the world," replied Edward. "Yes,
my dear child, I planted them when you were still lying in your cradle."

The party now betook themselves back to the castle. After dinner was
over they were invited to walk through the village to take a glance at what
had been done there as well. At a hint from the Captain, the inhabitants had
collected in front of the houses. They were not standing in rows, but formed
in natural family groups; part were occupied at their evening work, part out

enjoying themselves on the new benches. They had determined, as an
agreeable duty which they imposed upon themselves, to have everything in
its present order and cleanliness, at least every Sunday and holiday.

A little party, held together by such feelings as had grown up among our
friends, is always unpleasantly interrupted by a large concourse of people.
All four were delighted to find themselves again alone in the large drawing-
room, but this sense of home was a little disturbed by a letter which was
brought to Edward, giving notice of fresh guests who were to arrive the
following day.

"It is as we supposed," Edward cried to Charlotte. "The Count will not
stay away; he is coming tomorrow."

"Then the Baroness, too, is not far off," answered Charlotte.

"Doubtless not," said Edward. "She is coming, too, tomorrow, from
another place. They only beg to be allowed to stay for a night; the next day
they will go on together."

"We must prepare for them in time, Ottilie," said Charlotte.

"What arrangement shall I desire to be made?" Ottilie asked.

Charlotte gave a general direction, and Ottilie left the room.

The Captain inquired into the relation in which these two persons stood
toward each other, and with which he was only very generally acquainted.
They had some time before, both being already married, fallen violently in
love with each other; a double marriage was not to be interfered with
without attracting attention. A divorce was proposed. On the Baroness's side
it could be effected, on that of the Count it could not. They were obliged
seemingly to separate, but their position toward each other remained

unchanged, and though in the winter at the Residence they were unable to
be together, they indemnified themselves in the summer, while making
tours and staying at watering-places.

They were both slightly older than Edward and Charlotte, and had been
intimate with them from early times at court. The connection had never
been absolutely broken off, although it was impossible to approve of their
proceedings. On the present occasion their coming was most unwelcome to
Charlotte; and if she had looked closely into her reasons for feeling it so,
she would have found it was on account of Ottilie. The poor innocent girl
should not have been brought so early in contact with such an example.

"It would have been more convenient if they had not come till a couple of
days later," Edward was saying; as Ottilie re-entered, "till we had finished
with this business of the farm. The deed of sale is complete. One copy of it I
have here, but we want a second, and our old clerk has fallen ill." The
Captain offered his services, and so did Charlotte, but there was something
or other to object to in both of them.

"Give it to me," cried Ottilie, a little hastily.

"You will never be able to finish it," said Charlotte.

"And really I must have it early the day after tomorrow, and it is long,"
Edward added.

"It shall be ready," Ottilie cried; and the paper was already in her hands.

The next morning, as they were looking out from their highest windows
for their visitors, whom they intended to go some way and meet, Edward
said, "Who is that yonder, riding slowly along the road?"

The Captain described accurately the figure of the horse-man.

"Then it is he," said Edward; "the particulars, which you can see better
than I, agree very well with the general figure, which I can see too. It is
Mittler; but what is he doing, coming riding at such a pace as that?"

The figure came nearer, and Mittler it veritably was. They received him
with warm greetings as he came slowly up the steps.

"Why did you not come yesterday?" Edward cried, as he approached.

"I do not like your grand festivities," answered he; "but I am come today
to keep my friend's birthday with you quietly."

"How are you able to find time enough?" asked Edward, with a laugh.

"My visit, if you can value it, you owe to an observation which I made
yesterday. I was spending a right happy afternoon in a house where I had
established peace, and then I heard that a birthday was being kept here.
Now this is what I call selfish, after all, said I to myself: you will only enjoy
yourself with those whose broken peace you have mended. Why cannot you
for once go and be happy with friends who keep the peace for themselves?
No sooner said than done. Here I am, as I determined with myself that I
would be."

"Yesterday you would have met a large party here; today you will find
but a small one," said Charlotte; "you will meet the Count and the Baroness,
with whom you have had enough to do already, I believe."

Out of the middle of the party, who had all four come down to welcome
him, the strange man dashed in the keenest disgust, seizing at the same time
his hat and whip. "Some unlucky star is always over me," he cried, "directly
I try to rest and enjoy myself. What business have I going out of my proper
character? I ought never to have come, and now I am persecuted away.

Under one roof with those two I will not remain, and you take care of
yourselves. They bring nothing but mischief; their nature is like leaven, and
propagates its own contagion."

They tried to pacify him, but it was in vain. "Whoever strikes at
marriage," he cried;—"whoever, either by word or act, undermines this, the
foundation of all moral society, that man has to settle with me, and if I
cannot become his master, I take care to settle myself out of his way.
Marriage is the beginning and the end of all culture. It makes the savage
mild; and the most cultivated has no better opportunity for displaying his
gentleness. Indissoluble it must be, because it brings so much happiness that
what small exceptional unhappiness it may bring counts for nothing in the
balance. And what do men mean by talking of unhappiness? Impatience it is
which from time to time comes over them, and then they fancy themselves
unhappy. Let them wait till the moment is gone by, and then they will bless
their good fortune that what has stood so long continues standing. There
never can be any adequate ground for separation. The condition of man is
pitched so high, in its joys and in its sorrows, that the sum which two
married people owe to each other defies calculation. It is an infinite debt,
which can only be discharged through all eternity.

"Its annoyances marriage may often have; I can well believe that, and it
is as it should be. We are all married to our consciences, and there are times
when we should be glad to be divorced from them; mine gives me more
annoyance than ever a man or a woman can give."

All this he poured out with the greatest vehemence: he would very likely
have gone on speaking longer, had not the sound of the postilions' horns
given notice of the arrival of the visitors, who, as if on a concerted
arrangement, drove into the castle-court from opposite sides at the same

moment. Mittler slipped away as their host hastened to receive them, and
desiring that his horse might be brought out immediately, rode angrily off.

CHAPTER X

The visitors were welcomed and brought in. They were delighted to find
themselves again in the same house and in the same rooms where in early
times they had passed many happy days, but which they had not seen for a
long time. Their friends too were very glad to see them. The Count and the
Baroness had both those tall fine figures which please in middle life almost
better than in youth. If something of the first bloom had faded off them, yet
there was an air in their appearance which was always irresistibly attractive.
Their manners too were thoroughly charming. Their free way of taking hold
of life and dealing with it, their happy humor, and apparent easy
unembarrassment, communicated itself at once to the rest; and a lighter
atmosphere hung about the whole party, without their having observed it
stealing on them.

The effect made itself felt immediately on the entrance of the new-
comers. They were fresh from the fashionable world, as was to be seen at
once, in their dress, in their equipment, and in everything about them; and
they formed a contrast not a little striking with our friends, their country
style, and the vehement feelings which were at work underneath among
them. This, however, very soon disappeared in the stream of past
recollection and present interests, and a rapid, lively conversation soon
united them all. After a short time they again separated. The ladies
withdrew to their own apartments, and there found amusement enough in

the many things which they had to tell one another, and in setting to work at
the same time to examine the new fashions, the spring dresses, bonnets, and
such like; while the gentlemen were employing themselves looking at the
new traveling chariots, trotting out the horses, and beginning at once to
bargain and exchange.

They did not meet again till dinner; in the meantime they had changed
their dress. And here, too, the newly arrived pair showed to all advantage.
Everything they wore was new, and in a style which their friends at the
castle had never seen, and yet, being accustomed to it themselves, it
appeared perfectly natural and graceful.

The conversation was brilliant and well sustained, as, indeed, in the
company of such persons everything and nothing appears to interest. They
spoke in French that the attendants might not understand what they said,
and swept in happiest humor over all that was passing in the great or the
middle world. On one particular subject they remained, however, longer
than was desirable. It was occasioned by Charlotte asking after one of her
early friends, of whom she had to learn, with some distress, that she was on
the point of being separated from her husband.

"It is a melancholy thing," Charlotte said, "when we fancy our absent
friends are finally settled, when we believe persons very dear to us to be
provided for for life, suddenly to hear that their fortunes are cast loose once
more; that they have to strike into a fresh path of life, and very likely a most
insecure one."

"Indeed, my dear friend," the Count answered, "it is our own fault if we
allow ourselves to be surprised at such things. We please ourselves with
imagining matters of this earth, and particularly matrimonial connections,
as very enduring; and as concerns this last point, the plays which we see
over and over again help to mislead us; being, as they are, so untrue to the

course of the world. In a comedy we see a marriage as the last aim of a
desire which is hindered and crossed through a number of acts, and at the
instant when it is reached the curtain falls, and the momentary satisfaction
continues to ring on in our ears. But in the world it is very different. The
play goes on still behind the scenes, and when the curtain rises again we
may see and hear, perhaps, little enough of the marriage."

"It cannot be so very bad, however," said Charlotte, smiling. "We see
people who have gone off the boards of the theatre, ready enough to
undertake a part upon them again."

"There is nothing to say against that," said the Count. "In a new character
a man may readily venture on a second trial; and when we know the world
we see clearly that it is only this positive, eternal duration of marriage in a
world where everything is in motion, which has anything unbecoming about
it. A certain friend of mine, whose humor displays itself principally in
suggestions for new laws, maintained that every marriage should be
concluded only for five years. Five, he said, was a sacred number—pretty
and uneven. Such a period would be long enough for people to learn each
other's character, bring a child or two into the world, quarrel, separate, and
what is best, get reconciled again. He would often exclaim, 'How happily
the first part of the time would pass away!' Two or three years, at least,
would be perfect bliss. On one side or the other there would not fail to be a
wish to have the relation continue longer, and the amiability would increase
the nearer they got to the parting time. The indifferent, even the dissatisfied
party, would be softened and gained over by such behavior; they would
forget, as in pleasant company the hours pass always unobserved, how the
time went by, and they would be delightfully surprised when, after the term
had run out, they first observed that they had unknowingly prolonged it."

Charming and pleasant as all this sounded, and deep (Charlotte felt it to
her soul) as was the moral significance which lay below it, expressions of
this kind, on Ottilie's account, were most distasteful to her. She knew very
well that nothing was more dangerous than the licentious conversation
which treats culpable or semi-culpable actions as if they were common,
ordinary, and even laudable, and of such undesirable kind assuredly were all
which touched on the sacredness of marriage. She endeavored, therefore, in
her skilful way, to give the conversation another turn, and, when she found
that she could not, it vexed her that Ottilie had managed everything so well
that there was no occasion for her to leave the table. In her quiet observant
way a nod or a look was enough for her to signify to the head servant
whatever was to be done, and everything went off perfectly, although there
were a couple of strange men in livery in the way who were rather a trouble
than a convenience. And so the Count, without feeling Charlotte's hints,
went on giving his opinions on the same subject. Generally, he was little
enough apt to be tedious in conversation; but this was a thing which
weighed so heavily on his heart, and the difficulties which he found in
getting separated from his wife were so great that it had made him bitter
against everything which concerned the marriage bond—that very bond
which, notwithstanding, he was so anxiously desiring between himself and
the Baroness.

"The same friend," he went on, "has another law which he proposes. A
marriage shall be held indissoluble only when either both parties, or at least
one or the other, enter into it for the third time. Such persons must be
supposed to acknowledge beyond a doubt that they find marriage
indispensable for themselves; they have had opportunities of thoroughly
knowing themselves; of knowing how they conducted themselves in their
earlier unions; whether they have any peculiarities of temper, which are a
more frequent cause of separation than bad dispositions. People would then
observe each other more closely; they would pay as much attention to the

married as to the unmarried, no one being able to tell how things may turn
out."

"That would add no little to the interest of society," said Edward. "As
things are now, when a man is married nobody cares any more either for his
virtues or for his vices."

"Under this arrangement," the Baroness struck in, laughing, "our good
hosts have passed successfully over their two steps, and may make
themselves ready for their third."

"Things have gone happily with them," said the Count. "In their case
death has done with a good will what in others the consistorial courts do
with a very bad one.

"Let the dead rest," said Charlotte, with a half serious look.

"Why so," persevered the Count, "when we can remember them with
honor? They were generous enough to content themselves with less than
their number of years for the sake of the larger good which they could leave
behind them."

"Alas! that in such cases," said the Baroness, with a suppressed sigh,
"happiness is bought only with the sacrifice of our fairest years."

"Indeed, yes," answered the Count; "and it might drive us to despair, if it
were not the same with everything in this world. Nothing goes as we hope.
Children do not fulfil what they promise; young people very seldom; and if
they keep their word, the world does not keep its word with them."

Charlotte, who was delighted that the conversation had taken a turn at
last, replied cheerfully:

"Well, then, we must content ourselves with enjoying what good we are
to have in fragments and pieces, as we can get it; and the sooner we can
accustom ourselves to this the better."

"Certainly," the Count answered, "you two have had the enjoyment of
very happy times. When I look back upon the years when you and Edward
were the loveliest couple at the court, I see nothing now to be compared
with those brilliant times, and such magnificent figures. When you two used
to dance together, all eyes were turned upon you, fastened upon you, while
you saw nothing but each other."

"So much has changed since those days," said Charlotte, "that we can
listen to such pretty things about ourselves without our modesty being
shocked at them."

"I often privately found fault with Edward," said the Count, "for not
being more firm. Those singular parents of his would certainly have given
way at last; and ten fair years is no trifle to gain."

"I must take Edward's part," struck in the Baroness. "Charlotte was not
altogether without fault—not altogether free from what we must call
prudential considerations; and although she had a real, hearty love for
Edward, and did in her secret soul intend to marry him, I can bear witness
how sorely she often tried him; and it was through this that he was at last
unluckily prevailed upon to leave her and go abroad, and try to forget her."

Edward bowed to the Baroness, and seemed grateful for her advocacy.

"And then I must add this," she continued, "in excuse for Charlotte. The
man who was at that time suing for her, had for a long time given proofs of
his constant attachment to her; and, when one came to know him well, was
a far more lovable person than the rest of you may like to acknowledge."

"My dear friend," the Count replied, a little pointedly, "confess, now, that
he was not altogether indifferent to yourself, and that Charlotte had more to
fear from you than from any other rival. I find it one of the highest traits in
women, that they continue so long in their regard for a man, and that
absence of no duration will serve to disturb or remove it."

"This fine feature, men possess, perhaps, even more," answered the
Baroness. "At any rate, I have observed with you, my dear Count, that no
one has more influence over you than a lady to whom you were once
attached. I have seen you take more trouble to do things when a certain
person has asked you, than the friend of this moment would have obtained
of you, if she had tried."

"Such a charge as that one must bear the best way one can," replied the
Count. "But as to what concerns Charlotte's first husband, I could not
endure him, because he parted so sweet a pair from each other—a really
predestined pair, who, once brought together, have no reason to fear the five
years, or be thinking of a second or third marriage."

"We must try," Charlotte said, "to make up for what we then allowed to
slip from us."

"Aye, and you must keep to that," said the Count; "your first marriages,"
he continued, with some vehemence, "were exactly marriages of the true
detestable sort. And, unhappily, marriages generally, even the best, have
(forgive me for using a strong expression) something awkward about them.
They destroy the delicacy of the relation; everything is made to rest on the
broad certainty out of which one side or other, at least, is too apt to make
their own advantage. It is all a matter of course; and they seem only to have
got themselves tied together, that one or the other, or both, may go their
own way the more easily."

At this moment, Charlotte, who was determined once for all that she
would put an end to the conversation, made a bold effort at turning it, and
succeeded. It then became more general. She and her husband and the
Captain were able to take a part in it. Even Ottilie had to give her opinion;
and the dessert was enjoyed in the happiest humor. It was particularly
beautiful, being composed almost entirely of the rich summer fruits in
elegant baskets, with epergnes of lovely flowers arranged in exquisite taste.

The new laying-out of the park came to be spoken of; and immediately
after dinner they went to look at what was going on. Ottilie withdrew, under
pretence of having household matters to look to; in reality, it was to set to
work again at the transcribing. The Count fell into conversation with the
Captain, and Charlotte afterward joined them. When they were at the
summit of the height, the Captain good-naturedly ran back to fetch the plan,
and in his absence the Count said to Charlotte:

"He is an exceedingly pleasing person. He is very well informed, and his
knowledge is always ready. His practical power, too, seems methodical and
vigorous. What he is doing here would be of great importance in some
higher sphere."

Charlotte listened to the Captain's praises with an inward delight. She
collected herself, however, and composedly and clearly confirmed what the
Count had said. But she was not a little startled when he continued:

"This acquaintance falls most opportunely for me. I know of a situation
for which he is perfectly suited, and I shall be doing the greatest favor to a
friend of mine, a man of high rank, by recommending to him a person who
is so exactly everything which he desires."

Charlotte felt as if a thunder-stroke had fallen on her. The Count did not
observe it: women, being accustomed at all times to hold themselves in

restraint, are always able, even in the most extraordinary cases, to maintain
an apparent composure; but she heard not a word more of what the Count
said, though he went on speaking.

"When I have made up my mind upon a thing," he added, "I am quick
about it. I have put my letter together already in my head, and I shall write
it immediately. You can find me some messenger who can ride off with it
this evening."

Charlotte was suffering agonies. Startled with the proposal, and shocked
at herself, she was unable to utter a word. Happily, the Count continued
talking of his plans for the Captain, the desirableness of which was only too
apparent to Charlotte.

It was time that the Captain returned. He came up and unrolled his design
before the Count. But with what changed eyes Charlotte now looked at the
friend whom she was to lose. In her necessity, she bowed and turned away,
and hurried down to the summer-house. Before she was half way there, the
tears were streaming from her eyes, and she flung herself into the narrow
room in the little hermitage, and gave herself up to an agony, a passion, a
despair, of the possibility of which, but a few moments before, she had not
had the slightest conception.

Edward had gone with the Baroness in the other direction toward the
ponds. This ready-witted lady, who liked to be in the secret about
everything, soon observed, in a few conversational feelers which she threw
out, that Edward was very fluent and free-spoken in praise of Ottilie. She
contrived in the most natural way to lead him out by degrees so completely
that at last she had not a doubt remaining that here was not merely an
incipient fancy, but a veritable, full-grown passion.

Married women, if they have no particular love for one another, yet are
silently in league together, especially against young girls. The consequences
of such an inclination presented themselves only too quickly to her world-
experienced spirit. Added to this, she had been already, in the course of the
day, talking to Charlotte about Ottilie; she had disapproved of her
remaining in the country, particularly being a girl of so retiring a character;
and she had proposed to take Ottilie with her to the residence of a friend
who was just then bestowing great expense on the education of an only
daughter, and who was only looking about to find some well-disposed
companion for her—to put her in the place of a second child, and let her
share in every advantage. Charlotte had taken time to consider. But now this
glimpse of the Baroness into Edward's heart changed what had been but a
suggestion at once into a settled determination; and the more rapidly she
made up her mind about it, the more she outwardly seemed to flatter
Edward's wishes. Never was there any one more self-possessed than this
lady; and to have mastered ourselves in extraordinary cases, disposes us to
treat even a common case with dissimulation—it makes us inclined, as we
have had to do so much violence to ourselves, to extend our control over
others, and hold ourselves in a degree compensated in what we outwardly
gain for what we inwardly have been obliged to sacrifice. To this feeling
there is often joined a kind of secret, spiteful pleasure in the blind,
unconscious ignorance with which the victim walks on into the snare. It is
not the immediately doing as we please which we enjoy, but the thought of
the surprise and exposure which is to follow. And thus was the Baroness
malicious enough to invite Edward to come with Charlotte and pay her a
visit at the grape-gathering; and, to his question whether they might bring
Ottilie with them, to frame an answer which, if he pleased, he might
interpret to his wishes.

Edward had already begun to pour out his delight at the beautiful scenery,
the broad river, the hills, the rocks, the vineyard, the old castles, the water-

parties, and the jubilee at the grape-gathering, the wine-pressing, etc., in all
of which, in the innocence of his heart, he was only exuberating in the
anticipation of the impression which these scenes were to make on the fresh
spirit of Ottilie. At this moment they saw her approaching, and the Baroness
said quickly to Edward that he had better say nothing to her of this intended
autumn expedition—things which we set our hearts upon so long before so
often failing to come to pass. Edward gave his promise; but he obliged his
companion to move more quickly to meet her; and at last, when they came
very close, he ran on several steps in advance. A heartfelt happiness
expressed itself in his whole being. He kissed her hand as he pressed into it
a nosegay of wild flowers which he had gathered on his way.

The Baroness felt bitter in her heart at the sight of it. Even whilst she was
able to disapprove of what was really objectionable in this affection, she
could not bear to see what was sweet and beautiful in it thrown away on
such a poor paltry girl.

When they had collected again at the supper-table, an entirely different
temper was spread over the party. The Count, who had in the meantime
written his letter and dispatched a messenger with it, occupied himself with
the Captain, whom he had been drawing out more and more—spending the
whole evening at his side, talking of serious matters. The Baroness, who sat
on the Count's right, found but small amusement in this; nor did Edward
find any more. The latter, first because he was thirsty, and then because he
was excited, did not spare the wine, and attached himself entirely to Ottilie,
whom he had made sit by him. On the other side, next to the Captain, sat
Charlotte; for her it was hard, it was almost impossible, to conceal the
emotion under which she was suffering.

The Baroness had sufficient time to make her observations at leisure. She
perceived Charlotte's uneasiness, and occupied as she was with Edward's

passion for Ottilie, she easily satisfied herself that her abstraction and
distress were owing to her husband's behavior; and she set herself to
consider in what way she could best compass her ends.

Supper was over, and the party remained divided. The Count, whose
object was to probe the Captain to the bottom, had to try many turns before
he could arrive at what he wished with so quiet, so little vain, but so
exceedingly laconic a person. They walked up and down together on one
side of the saloon, while Edward, excited with wine and hope, was laughing
with Ottilie at a window, and Charlotte and the Baroness were walking
backward and forward, without speaking, on the other side. Their being so
silent, and their standing about in this uneasy, listless way, had its effect at
last in breaking up the rest of the party. The ladies withdrew to their rooms,
the gentlemen to the other wing of the castle; and so this day appeared to be
concluded.

CHAPTER XI

Edward went with the Count to his room. They continued talking, and he
was easily prevailed upon to stay a little time longer there. The Count lost
himself in old times, spoke eagerly of Charlotte's beauty, which, as a critic,
he dwelt upon with much warmth.

"A pretty foot is a great gift of nature," he said. "It is a grace which never
perishes. I observed it today, as she was walking. I should almost have liked
even to kiss her shoe, and repeat that somewhat barbarous but significant
practice of the Sarmatians, who know no better way of showing reverence
for any one they love or respect, than by using his shoe to drink his health
out of."

The point of the foot did not remain the only subject of praise between
two old acquaintances; they went from the person back upon old stories and
adventures, and came on the hindrances which at that time people had
thrown in the way of the lovers' meetings—what trouble they had taken,
what arts they had been obliged to devise, only to be able to tell each other
that they loved.

"Do you remember," continued the Count, "an adventure in which I most
unselfishly stood your friend when their High Mightinesses were on a visit
to your uncle, and were all together in that great, straggling castle? The day

went in festivities and glitter of all sorts; and a part of the night at least in
pleasant conversation."

"And you, in the meantime, had observed the back-way which led to the
court ladies' quarter," said Edward, "and so managed to effect an interview
for me with my beloved."

"And she," replied the Count, "thinking more of propriety than of my
enjoyment, had kept a frightful old duenna with her. So that, while you two,
between looks and words, got on extremely well together, my lot, in the
meanwhile, was far from pleasant."

"It was only yesterday," answered Edward, "when we heard that you
were coming, that I was talking over the story with my wife and describing
our adventure on returning. We missed the road, and got into the entrance-
hall from the garden. Knowing our way from thence as well as we did, we
supposed we could get along easily enough.

"But you remember our surprise on opening the door. The floor was
covered over with mattresses on which the giants lay in rows stretched out
and sleeping. The single sentinel at his post looked wonderingly at us; but
we, in the cool way young men do things, strode quietly on over the
outstretched boots, without disturbing a single one of the snoring children
of Anak."

"I had the strongest inclination to stumble," the Count said, "that there
might be an alarm given. What a resurrection we should have witnessed."

At this moment the castle clock struck twelve.

"It is deep midnight," the Count added, laughing, "and just the proper
time; I must ask you, my dear Edward, to show me a kindness. Do you

guide me tonight, as I guided you then. I promised the Baroness that I
would see her before going to bed. We have had no opportunity of any
private talk together the whole day. We have not seen each other for a long
time, and it is only natural that we should wish for a confidential hour. If
you will show me the way there, I will manage to get back again; and in any
case, there will be no boots for me to stumble over."

"I shall be very glad to show you such a piece of hospitality," answered
Edward; "only the three ladies are together in the same wing. Who knows
whether we shall not find them still with one another, or make some other
mistake, which may have a strange appearance?"

"Do not be afraid," said the Count; "the Baroness expects me. She is sure
by this time to be in her own room, and alone."

"Well, then, the thing is easy enough," Edward answered.

He took a candle, and lighted the Count down a private staircase leading
into a long gallery. At the end of this, he opened a small door. They
mounted a winding flight of stairs, which brought them out upon a narrow
landing-place; and then, putting the candle in the Count's hand, he pointed
to a tapestried door on the right, which opened readily at the first trial, and
admitted the Count, leaving Edward outside in the dark.

Another door on the left led into Charlotte's sleeping-room. He heard her
voice, and listened. She was speaking to her maid. "Is Ottilie in bed?" she
asked. "No," was the answer; "she is sitting writing in the room below."
"You may light the night-lamp," said Charlotte; "I shall not want you any
more. It is late. I can put out the candle, and do whatever I may want else
myself."

It was a delight to Edward to hear that Ottilie was writing still. She is
working for me, he thought triumphantly. Through the darkness, he fancied
he could see her sitting all alone at her desk. He thought he would go to her,
and see her; and how she would turn to receive him. He felt a longing,
which he could not resist, to be near her once more. But, from where he
was, there was no way to the apartments which she occupied. He now found
himself immediately at his wife's door. A singular change of feeling came
over him. He tried the handle, but the bolts were shot. He knocked gently.
Charlotte did not hear him. She was walking rapidly up and down in the
large dressing-room adjoining. She was repeating over and over what, since
the Count's unexpected proposal, she had often enough had to say to
herself. The Captain seemed to stand before her. At home, and everywhere,
he had become her all in all. And now he was to go; and it was all to be
desolate again. She repeated whatever wise things one can say to oneself;
she even anticipated, as people so often do, the wretched comfort that time
would come at last to her relief; and then she cursed the time which would
have to pass before it could lighten her sufferings—she cursed the dead,
cold time when they would be lightened. At last she burst into tears; they
were the more welcome, since tears with her were rare. She flung herself on
the sofa, and gave herself up unreservedly to her sufferings. Edward,
meanwhile, could not take himself from the door. He knocked again; and a
third time rather louder; so that Charlotte, in the stillness of the night,
distinctly heard it, and started up in fright. Her first thought was—it can
only be, it must be, the Captain; her second, that it was impossible. She
thought she must have been deceived. But surely she had heard it; and she
wished, and she feared to have heard it. She went into her sleeping-room,
and walked lightly up to the bolted tapestry-door. She blamed herself for
her fears. "Possibly it may be the Baroness wanting something," she said to
herself; and she called out quietly and calmly, "Is anybody there?" A light
voice answered, "It is I." "Who?" returned Charlotte, not being able to make

out the voice. She thought she saw the Captain's figure standing at the door.
In a rather louder tone, she heard the word "Edward!" She drew back the
bolt, and her husband stood before her. He greeted her with some light jest.
She was unable to reply in the same tone. He complicated the mysterious
visit by his mysterious explanation of it.

"Well, then," he said at last, "I will confess, the real reason why I am
come is, that I have made a vow to kiss your shoe this evening."

"It is long since you thought of such a thing as that," said Charlotte.

"So much the worse," he answered; "and so much the better."

She had thrown herself back in an armchair, to prevent him from seeing
the slightness of her dress. He flung himself down before her, and she could
not prevent him from giving her shoe a kiss. And when the shoe came off in
his hand, he caught her foot and pressed it tenderly against his breast.

Charlotte was one of those women who, being of naturally calm
temperaments, continue in marriage, without any purpose or any effort, the
air and character of lovers. She was never expressive toward her husband;
generally, indeed, she rather shrank from any warm demonstration on his
part. It was not that she was cold, or at all hard and repulsive, but she
remained always like a loving bride, who draws back with a kind of shyness
even from what is permitted. And so Edward found her this evening, in a
double sense. How sorely did she not long that her husband would go; the
figure of his friend seemed to hover in the air and reproach her. But what
should have had the effect of driving Edward away only attracted him the
more. There were visible traces of emotion about her. She had been crying;
and tears, which with weak persons detract from their graces, add
immeasurably to the attractiveness of those whom we know commonly as
strong and self-possessed.

Edward was so agreeable, so gentle, so pressing; he begged to be allowed
to stay with her. He did not demand it, but half in fun, half in earnest, he
tried to persuade her; he never thought of his rights. At last, as if in
mischief, he blew out the candle.

In the dim lamplight, the inward affection, the imagination, maintained
their rights over the real; it was Ottilie that was resting in Edward's arms;
and the Captain, now faintly, now clearly, hovered before Charlotte's soul.
And so, strangely intermingled, the absent and the present flowed in a sweet
enchantment one into the other.

And yet the present would not let itself be robbed of its own unlovely
right. They spent a part of the night talking and laughing at all sorts of
things, the more freely as the heart had no part in it. But when Edward
awoke in the morning, on his wife's breast, the day seemed to stare in with a
sad, awful look, and the sun to be shining in upon a crime. He stole lightly
from her side; and she found herself, with strange enough feelings, when
she awoke, alone.

CHAPTER XII

When the party assembled again at breakfast, an attentive observer might
have read in the behavior of its various members the different things which
were passing in their inner thoughts and feelings. The Count and the
Baroness met with the air of happiness which a pair of lovers feel, who,
after having been forced to endure a long separation, have mutually assured
each other of their unaltered affection. On the other hand, Charlotte and
Edward equally came into the presence of the Captain and Ottilie with a
sense of shame and remorse. For such is the nature of love that it believes in
no rights except its own, and all other rights vanish away before it. Ottilie
was in child-like spirits. For her—she was almost what might be called
open. The Captain appeared serious. His conversation with the Count,
which had roused in him feelings that for some time past had been at rest
and dormant, had made him only too keenly conscious that here he was not
fulfilling his work, and at bottom was but squandering himself in a half-
activity of idleness.

Hardly had their guests departed, when fresh visitors were announced—
to Charlotte most welcomely, all she wished for being to be taken out of
herself, and to have her attention dissipated. They annoyed Edward, who
was longing to devote himself to Ottilie; and Ottilie did not like them either;
the copy which had to be finished the next morning early being still

incomplete. They staid a long time, and immediately that they were gone
she hurried off to her room.

It was now evening. Edward, Charlotte, and the Captain had
accompanied the strangers some little way on foot, before the latter got into
their carriage, and previous to returning home they agreed to take a walk
along the water-side.

A boat had come, which Edward had had fetched from a distance, at no
little expense; and they decided that they would try whether it was easy to
manage. It was made fast on the bank of the middle pond, not far from
some old ash trees on which they calculated to make an effect in their future
improvements. There was to be a landing-place made there, and under the
trees a seat was to be raised, with some wonderful architecture about it: it
was to be the point for which people were to make when they went across
the water.

"And where had we better have the landing-place on the other side?" said
Edward. "I should think under my plane trees."

"They stand a little too far to the right," said the Captain. "You are nearer
the castle if you land further down. However, we must think about it."

The Captain was already standing in the stern of the boat, and had taken
up an oar. Charlotte got in, and Edward with her—he took the other oar; but
as he was on the point of pushing off, he thought of Ottilie—he recollected
that this water-party would keep him out late; who could tell when he
would get back? He made up his mind shortly and promptly; sprang back to
the bank, and reaching the other oar to the Captain, hurried home—making
excuses to himself as he ran.

Arriving there he learnt that Ottilie had shut herself up—she was writing.
In spite of the agreeable feeling that she was doing something for him, it
was the keenest mortification to him not to be able to see her. His
impatience increased every moment. He walked up and down the large
drawing-room; he tried a thousand things, and could not fix his attention
upon any. He was longing to see her alone, before Charlotte came back with
the Captain. It was dark by this time, and the candles were lighted.

At last she came in beaming with loveliness: the sense that she had done
something for her friend had lifted all her being above itself. She put down
the original and her transcript on the table before Edward.

"Shall we collate them?" she said, with a smile.

Edward did not know what to answer. He looked at her—he looked at the
transcript. The first few sheets were written with the greatest carefulness in
a delicate woman's hand—then the strokes appeared to alter, to become
more light and free—but who can describe his surprise as he ran his eyes
over the concluding page? "For heaven's sake," he cried, "what is this? this
is my hand!" He looked at Ottilie, and again at the paper; the conclusion,
especially, was exactly as if he had written it himself. Ottilie said nothing,
but she looked at him with her eyes full of the warmest delight. Edward
stretched out his arms. "You love me!" he cried: "Ottilie, you love me!"
They fell on each other's breast—which had been the first to catch the other
it would have been impossible to distinguish.

From that moment the world was all changed for Edward. He was no
longer what he had been, and the world was no longer what it had been.
They parted—he held her hands; they gazed in each other's eyes. They were
on the point of embracing each other again.

Charlotte entered with the Captain. Edward inwardly smiled at their
excuses for having stayed out so long. Oh! how far too soon you have
returned, he said to himself.

They sat down to supper. They talked about the people who had been
there that day. Edward, full of love and ecstasy, spoke well of every one—
always sparing, often approving. Charlotte, who was not altogether of his
opinion, remarked this temper in him, and jested with him about it—he who
had always the sharpest thing to say on departed visitors, was this evening
so gentle and tolerant.

With fervor and heartfelt conviction, Edward cried, "One has only to love
a single creature with all one's heart, and the whole world at once looks
lovely!"

Ottilie dropped her eyes on the ground, and Charlotte looked straight
before her.

The Captain took up the word, and said, "It is the same with deep
feelings of respect and reverence: we first learn to recognize what there is
that is to be valued in the world, when we find occasion to entertain such
sentiments toward a particular object."

Charlotte made an excuse to retire early to her room where she could
give herself up to thinking over what had passed in the course of the
evening between herself and the Captain.

When Edward sprang on shore, and, pushing off the boat, had himself
committed his wife and his friend to the uncertain element, Charlotte found
herself face to face with the man on whose account she had been already
secretly suffering so bitterly, sitting in the twilight before her, and sweeping
along the boat with the sculls in easy motion. She felt a depth of sadness,

very rare with her, weighing on her spirits. The undulating movement of the
boat, the splash of the oars, the faint breeze playing over the watery mirror,
the sighing of the reeds, the long flight of the birds, the fitful twinkling of
the first stars—there was something spectral about it all in the universal
stillness. She fancied her friend was bearing her away to set her on some
far-off shore, and leave her there alone; strange emotions were passing
through her, and she could not give way to them and weep.

The Captain was describing to her the manner in which, in his opinion,
the improvements should be continued. He praised the construction of the
boat; it was so convenient, he said, because one person could so easily
manage it with a pair of oars. She should herself learn how to do this; there
was often a delicious feeling in floating along alone upon the water, one's
own ferryman and steersman.

The parting which was impending sank on Charlotte's heart as he was
speaking. Is he saying this on purpose? she thought to herself. Does he
know it yet? Does he suspect it or is it only accident? And is he
unconsciously foretelling me my fate?

A weary, impatient heaviness took hold of her; she begged him to make
for land as soon as possible and return with her to the castle.

It was the first time that the Captain had been upon the water, and,
though generally he had acquainted himself with its depth, he did not know
accurately the particular spots. Dusk was coming on; he directed his course
to a place where he thought it would be easy to get on shore, and from
which he knew the footpath which led to the castle was not far distant.
Charlotte, however, repeated her wish to get to land quickly, and the place
which he thought of being at a short distance, he gave it up, and exerting
himself as much as he possibly could, made straight for the bank.
Unhappily the water was shallow, and he ran aground some way off from it.

From the rate at which he was going the boat was fixed fast, and all his
efforts to move it were in vain. What was to be done? There was no
alternative but to get into the water and carry his companion ashore.

It was done without difficulty or danger. He was strong enough not to
totter with her, or give her any cause for anxiety; but in her agitation she
had thrown her arms about his neck. He held her fast, and pressed her to
himself—and at last laid her down upon a grassy bank, not without emotion
and confusion * * * she still lay upon his neck * * * he caught her up once
more in his arms, and pressed a warm kiss upon her lips. The next moment
he was at her feet: he took her hand, and held it to his mouth, and cried:

"Charlotte, will you forgive me?"

The kiss which he had ventured to give, and which she had all but
returned to him, brought Charlotte to herself again—she pressed his hand—
but she did not attempt to raise him up. She bent down over him, and laid
her hand upon his shoulder and said:

"We cannot now prevent this moment from forming an epoch in our
lives; but it depends on us to bear ourselves in a manner which shall be
worthy of us. You must go away, my dear friend; and you are going. The
Count has plans for you, to give you better prospects—I am glad, and I am
sorry. I did not mean to speak of it till it was certain but this moment
obliges me to tell you my secret * * * Since it does not depend on ourselves
to alter our feelings, I can only forgive you, I can only forgive myself, if we
have the courage to alter our situation." She raised him up, took his arm to
support herself, and they walked back to the castle without speaking.

But now she was standing in her own room, where she had to feel and to
know that she was Edward's wife. Her strength and the various discipline in
which through life she had trained herself, came to her assistance in the

conflict. Accustomed as she had always been to look steadily into herself
and to control herself, she did not now find it difficult, with an earnest
effort, to come to the resolution which she desired. She could almost smile
when she remembered the strange visit of the night before. Suddenly she
was seized with a wonderful instinctive feeling, a thrill of fearful delight
which changed into holy hope and longing. She knelt earnestly down, and
repeated the oath which she had taken to Edward before the altar.

Friendship, affection, renunciation, floated in glad, happy images before
her. She felt restored to health and to herself. A sweet weariness came over
her. She lay down, and sank into a calm, quiet sleep.

CHAPTER XIII

Edward, on his part, was in a very different temper. So little he thought of
sleeping that it did not once occur to him even to undress himself. A
thousand times he kissed the transcript of the document, but it was the
beginning of it, in Ottilie's childish, timid hand; the end he scarcely dared to
kiss, for he thought it was his own hand which he saw. Oh, that it were
another document! he whispered to himself; and, as it was, he felt it was the
sweetest assurance that his highest wish would be fulfilled. Thus it
remained in his hands, thus he continued to press it to his heart, although
disfigured by a third name subscribed to it. The waning moon rose up over
the wood. The warmth of the night drew Edward out into the free air. He
wandered this way and that way; he was at once the most restless and the
happiest of mortals. He strayed through the gardens—they seemed too
narrow for him; he hurried out into the park, and it was too wide. He was
drawn back toward the castle; he stood under Ottilie's window. He threw
himself down on the steps of the terrace below. "Walls and bolts," he said to
himself, "may still divide us, but our hearts are not divided. If she were here
before me, into my arms she would fall, and I into hers; and what can one
desire but that sweet certainty!" All was stillness round him; not a breath
was moving;—so still it was, that he could hear the unresting creatures
underground at their work, to whom day or night are alike. He abandoned
himself to his delicious dreams; at last he fell asleep, and did not wake till

the sun with his royal beams was mounting up in the sky and scattering the
early mists.

He found himself the first person awake on his domain. The laborers
seemed to be staying away too long: they came; he thought they were too
few, and the work set out for the day too slight for his desires. He inquired
for more workmen; they were promised, and in the course of the day they
came. But these, too, were not enough for him to carry his plans out as
rapidly as he wished. To do the work gave him no pleasure any longer; it
should all be done. And for whom? The paths should be gravelled that
Ottilie might walk presently upon them; seats should be made at every spot
and corner that Ottilie might rest on them. The new park house was hurried
forward. It should be finished for Ottilie's birthday. In all he thought and all
he did, there was no more moderation. The sense of loving and of being
loved, urged him out into the unlimited. How changed was now to him the
look of all the rooms, their furniture, and their decorations! He did not feel
as if he was in his own house any more. Ottilie's presence absorbed
everything. He was utterly lost in her; no other thought ever rose before
him; no conscience disturbed him; every restraint which had been laid upon
his nature burst loose. His whole being centered upon Ottilie. This
impetuosity of passion did not escape the Captain, who longed, if he could,
to prevent its evil consequences. All those plans which were now being
hurried on with this immoderate speed, had been drawn out and calculated
for a long, quiet, easy execution. The sale of the farm had been completed;
the first instalment had been paid. Charlotte, according to the arrangement,
had taken possession of it. But the very first week after, she found it more
than usually necessary to exercise patience and resolution, and to keep her
eye on what was being done. In the present hasty style of proceeding, the
money which had been set apart for the purpose would not go far.

Much had been begun, and much yet remained to be done. How could the
Captain leave Charlotte in such a situation? They consulted together, and
agreed that it would be better that they themselves should hurry on the
works, and for this purpose employ money which could be made good
again at the period fixed for the discharge of the second instalment of what
was to be paid for the farm. It could be done almost without loss. They
would have a freer hand. Everything would progress simultaneously. There
were laborers enough at hand, and they could get more accomplished at
once, and arrive swiftly and surely at their aim. Edward gladly gave his
consent to a plan which so entirely coincided with his own views.

During this time Charlotte persisted with all her heart in what she had
determined for herself, and her friend stood by her with a like purpose,
manfully. This very circumstance, however, produced a greater intimacy
between them. They spoke openly to each other of Edward's passion, and
consulted what had better be done. Charlotte kept Ottilie more about
herself, watching her narrowly; and the more she understood her own heart,
the deeper she was able to penetrate into the heart of the poor girl. She saw
no help for it, except in sending her away.

It now appeared a happy thing to her that Luciana had gained such high
honors at the school; for her great aunt, as soon as she heard of it, desired to
take her entirely to herself, to keep her with her, and bring her out into the
world. Ottilie could, therefore, return thither. The Captain would leave them
well provided for, and everything would be as it had been a few months
before; indeed, in many respects better. Her own position in Edward's
affection, Charlotte thought, she could soon recover; and she settled it all,
and laid it all out before herself so sensibly that she only strengthened
herself more completely in her delusion, as if it were possible for them to
return within their old limits—as if a bond which had been violently broken
could again be joined together as before.

In the meantime Edward felt very deeply the hindrances which were
thrown in his way. He soon observed that they were keeping him and Ottilie
separate; that they made it difficult for him to speak with her alone, or even
to approach her, except in the presence of others. And while he was angry
about this, he was angry at many things besides. If he caught an opportunity
for a few hasty words with Ottilie, it was not only to assure her of his love,
but to complain of his wife and of the Captain. He never felt that with his
own irrational haste he was on the way to exhaust the cash-box. He found
bitter fault with them, because in the execution of the work they were not
keeping to the first agreement, and yet he had been himself a consenting
party to the second; indeed, it was he who had occasioned it and made it
necessary.

Hatred is a partisan, but love is even more so. Ottilie also estranged
herself from Charlotte and the Captain. As Edward was complaining one
day to Ottilie of the latter, saying that he was not treating him like a friend,
or, under the circumstances, acting quite uprightly, she answered
unthinkingly, "I have once or twice had a painful feeling that he was not
quite honest with you. I heard him say once to Charlotte: 'If Edward would
but spare us that eternal flute of his! He can make nothing of it, and it is too
disagreeable to listen to him.' You may imagine how it hurt me, when I like
accompanying you so much."

She had scarcely uttered the words when her conscience whispered to her
that she had much better have been silent. However, the thing was said.
Edward's features worked violently. Never had anything stung him more.
He was touched on his tenderest point. It was his amusement; he followed it
like a child. He never made the slightest pretensions; what gave him
pleasure should be treated with forbearance by his friends. He never
thought how intolerable it is for a third person to have his ears lacerated by

an unsuccessful talent. He was indignant; he was hurt in a way which he
could not forgive. He felt himself discharged from all obligations.

The necessity of being with Ottilie, of seeing her, whispering to her,
exchanging his confidence with her, increased with every day. He
determined to write to her, and ask her to carry on a secret correspondence
with him. The strip of paper on which he had, laconically enough, made his
request, lay on his writing-table, and was swept off by a draught of wind as
his valet entered to dress his hair. The latter was in the habit of trying the
heat of the iron by picking up any scraps of paper which might be lying
about. This time his hand fell on the billet; he twisted it up hastily, and it
was burnt. Edward observing the mistake, snatched it out of his hand. After
the man was gone, he sat himself down to write it over again. The second
time it would not run so readily off his pen. It gave him a little uneasiness;
he hesitated, but he got over it. He squeezed the paper into Ottilie's hand the
first moment he was able to approach her. Ottilie answered him
immediately. He put the note unread in his waistcoat pocket, which, being
made short in the fashion of the time, was shallow, and did not hold it as it
ought. It worked out, and fell without his observing it on the ground.
Charlotte saw it, picked it up, and after giving a hasty glance at it, reached it
to him.

"Here is something in your handwriting," she said, "which you may be
sorry to lose."

He was confounded. Is she dissembling? he thought to himself. Does she
know what is in the note, or is she deceived by the resemblance of the
hand? He hoped, he believed the latter. He was warned—doubly warned;
but those strange accidents, through which a higher intelligence seems to be
speaking to us, his passion was not able to interpret. Rather, as he went
further and further on, he felt the restraint under which his friend and his

wife seemed to be holding him the more intolerable. His pleasure in their
society was gone. His heart was closed against them, and though he was
obliged to endure their society, he could not succeed in re-discovering or in
re-animating within his heart anything of his old affection for them. The
silent reproaches which he was forced to make to himself about it were
disagreeable to him. He tried to help himself with a kind of humor which,
however, being without love, was also without its usual grace.

Over all such trials Charlotte found assistance to rise in her own inward
feelings. She knew her own determination. Her own affection, fair and
noble as it was, she would utterly renounce.

And sorely she longed to go to the assistance of the other two.
Separation, she knew well, would not alone suffice to heal so deep a wound.
She resolved that she would speak openly about it to Ottilie herself. But she
could not do it. The recollection of her own weakness stood in her way. She
thought she could talk generally to her about the sort of thing. But general
expressions about "the sort of thing," fitted her own case equally well, and
she could not bear to touch it. Every hint which she would give Ottilie
recoiled on her own heart. She would warn, and she was obliged to feel that
she might herself still be in need of warning.

She contented herself, therefore, with silently keeping the lovers more
apart, and by this gained nothing. The slight hints which frequently escaped
her had no effect upon Ottilie; for Ottilie had been assured by Edward that
Charlotte was devoted to the Captain, that Charlotte herself wished for a
separation, and that he was at this moment considering the readiest means
by which it could be brought about.

Ottilie, led by the sense of her own innocence along the road to the
happiness for which she longed, lived only for Edward. Strengthened by her
love for him in all good, more light and happy in her work for his sake, and

more frank and open toward others, she found herself in a heaven upon
earth.

So all together, each in his or her own fashion, reflecting or unreflecting,
they continued on the routine of their lives. All seemed to go its ordinary
way, as, in monstrous cases, when everything is at stake, men will still live
on, as if it were all nothing.

CHAPTER XIV

In the meantime a letter came from the Count to the Captain—two, indeed
—one which he might produce, holding out fair, excellent prospects in the
distance; the other containing a distinct offer of an immediate situation, a
place of high importance and responsibility at the Court, his rank as Major,
a very considerable salary, and other advantages. A number of
circumstances, however, made it desirable that for the moment he should
not speak of it, and consequently he only informed his friends of his distant
expectations, and concealed what was so nearly impending.

He went warmly on, at the same time, with his present occupation, and
quietly made arrangements to insure the continuance of the works without
interruption after his departure. He was now himself desirous that as much
as possible should be finished off at once, and was ready to hasten things
forward to prepare for Ottilie's birthday. And so, though without having
come to any express understanding, the two friends worked side by side
together. Edward was now well pleased that the cash-box was filled by their
having taken up money. The whole affair went forward at fullest speed.

The Captain had done his best to oppose the plan of throwing the three
ponds together into a single sheet of water. The lower embankment would
have to be made much stronger, the two intermediate embankments to be
taken away, and altogether, in more than one sense, it seemed a very
questionable proceeding. However, both these schemes had been already

undertaken; the soil which was removed above being carried at once down
to where it was wanted. And here there came opportunely on the scene a
young architect, an old pupil of the Captain, who partly by introducing
workmen who understood work of this nature, and partly by himself,
whenever it was possible, contracting for the work itself, advanced things
not a little, while at the same time they could feel more confidence in their
being securely and lastingly executed. In secret this was a great pleasure to
the Captain. He could now be confident that his absence would not be so
severely felt. It was one of the points on which he was most resolute with
himself, never to leave anything which he had taken in hand uncompleted,
unless he could see his place satisfactorily supplied. And he could not but
hold in small respect, persons who introduce confusion around themselves
only to make their absence felt and are ready to disturb in wanton
selfishness what they will not be at hand to restore.

So they labored on, straining every nerve to make Ottilie's birthday
splendid, without any open acknowledgment that this was what they were
aiming at, or, indeed, without their directly acknowledging it to themselves.
Charlotte, wholly free from jealousy as she was, could not think it right to
keep it as a real festival. Ottilie's youth, the circumstances of her fortune,
and her relationship to their family, were not at all such as made it fit that
she should appear as the queen of the day; and Edward would not have it
talked about, because everything was to spring out, as it were, of itself, with
a natural and delightful surprise.

They, therefore, came all of them to a sort of tacit understanding that on
this day, without further circumstance, the new house in the park was to be
opened, and they might take the occasion to invite the neighborhood and
give a holiday to their own people. Edward's passion, however, knew no
bounds. Longing as he did to give himself to Ottilie, his presents and his
promises must be infinite. The birthday gifts which on the great occasion he

was to offer to her seemed, as Charlotte had arranged them, far too
insignificant. He spoke to his valet, who had the care of his wardrobe, and
who consequently had extensive acquaintance among the tailors and
mercers and fashionable milliners; and he, who not only understood himself
what valuable presents were, but also the most graceful way in which they
should be offered, immediately ordered an elegant box, covered with red
morocco and studded with steel nails, to be filled with presents worthy of
such a shell. Another thing, too, he suggested to Edward. Among the stores
at the castle was a small show of fireworks which had never been let off. It
would be easy to get some more, and have something really fine. Edward
caught the idea, and his servant promised to see to its being executed. This
matter was to remain a secret.

While this was going on, the Captain, as the day drew nearer, had been
making arrangements for a body of police to be present—a precaution
which he always thought desirable when large numbers of men are to be
brought together. And, indeed, against beggars, and against all other
inconveniences by which the pleasure of a festival can be disturbed, he had
made effectual provision.

Edward and his confidante, on the contrary, were mainly occupied with
their fireworks. They were to be let off on the side of the middle water in
front of the great ash-tree. The party were to be collected on the opposite
side, under the planes, that at a sufficient distance from the scene, in ease
and safety, they might see them to the best effect, with the reflections on the
water, the water-rockets, and floating-lights, and all the other designs.

Under some other pretext, Edward had the ground underneath the plane-
trees cleared of bushes and grass and moss. And now first could be seen the
beauty of their forms, together with their full height and spread, right up
from the earth. He was delighted with them. It was just this very time of the

year that he had planted them. How long ago could it have been? he asked
himself. As soon as he got home he turned over the old diary books, which
his father, especially when in the country, was very careful in keeping. He
might not find an entry of this particular planting, but another important
domestic matter, which Edward well remembered, and which had occurred
on the same day, would surely be mentioned. He turned over a few
volumes. The circumstances he was looking for was there. How amazed,
how overjoyed he was, when he discovered the strangest coincidence! The
day and the year on which he had planted those trees, was the very day, the
very year, when Ottilie was born.

CHAPTER XV

THE long-wished-for morning dawned at last on Edward; and very soon a
number of guests arrived. They had sent out a large number of invitations,
and many who had missed the laying of the foundation-stone, which was
reported to have been so charming, were the more careful not to be absent
on the second festivity.

Before dinner the carpenter's people appeared, with music, in the court of
the castle. They bore an immense garland of flowers, composed of a
number of single wreaths, winding in and out, one above the other; saluting
the company, they made request, according to custom, for silk
handkerchiefs and ribands, at the hands of the fair sex, with which to dress
themselves out. When the castle party went into the dining-hall, they
marched off singing and shouting, and after amusing themselves a while in
the village, and coaxing many a riband out of the women there, old and
young, they came at last, with crowds behind them and crowds expecting
them, out upon the height where the park-house was now standing. After
dinner, Charlotte rather held back her guests. She did not wish that there
should be any solemn or formal procession, and they found their way in
little parties, broken up, as they pleased, without rule or order, to the scene
of action. Charlotte staid behind with Ottilie, and did not improve matters
by doing so. For Ottilie being really the last that appeared, it seemed as if

the trumpets and the clarionets had only been waiting for her, and as if the
gaieties had been ordered to commence directly on her arrival.

To take off the rough appearance of the house, it had been hung with
green boughs and flowers. They had dressed it out in an architectural
fashion, according to a design of the Captain's; only that, without his
knowledge, Edward had desired the Architect to work in the date upon the
cornice in flowers, and this was necessarily permitted to remain. The
Captain had arrived on the scene just in time to prevent Ottilie's name from
figuring in splendor on the gable. The beginning, which had been made for
this, he contrived to turn skilfully to some other use, and to get rid of such
of the letters as had been already finished.

The garland was set up, and was to be seen far and wide about the
country. The flags and the ribands fluttered gaily in the air; and a short
oration was, the greater part of it, dispersed by the wind. The solemnity was
at an end. There was now to be a dance on the smooth lawn in front of the
building, which had been inclosed with boughs and branches. A gaily-
dressed working mason took Edward up to a smart-looking girl of the
village, and called himself upon Ottilie, who stood out with him. These two
couples speedily found others to follow them, and Edward contrived pretty
soon to change partners, catching Ottilie, and making the round with her.
The younger part of the company joined merrily in the dance with the
people, while the elder among them stood and looked on.

Then, before they broke up and walked about, an order was given that
they should all collect again at sunset under the plane-trees. Edward was the
first upon the spot, ordering everything, and making his arrangements with
his valet, who was to be on the other side, in company with the firework-
maker, managing his exhibition of the spectacle.

The Captain was far from satisfied at some of the preparations which he
saw made; and he endeavored to get a word with Edward about the crush of
spectators which was to be expected. But the latter, somewhat hastily,
begged that he might be allowed to manage this part of the day's
amusements himself.

The upper end of the embankment having been recently raised, was still
far from compact. It had been staked, but there was no grass upon it, and
the earth was uneven and insecure. The crowd pressed on, however, in great
numbers. The sun went down, and the castle party was served with
refreshments under the plane-trees, to pass the time till it should have
become sufficiently dark. The place was approved of beyond measure, and
they looked forward to a frequent enjoyment of the view over so lovely a
sheet of water, on future occasions.

A calm evening, a perfect absence of wind, promised everything in favor
of the spectacle, when suddenly loud and violent shrieks were heard. Large
masses of the earth had given way on the edge of the embankment, and a
number of people were precipitated into the water. The pressure from the
throng had gone on increasing till at last it had become more than the newly
laid soil would bear, and the bank had fallen in. Everybody wanted to obtain
the best place, and now there was no getting either backward or forward.

People ran this and that way, more to see what was going on than to
render assistance. What could be done when no one could reach the place?

The Captain, with a few determined persons, hurried down and drove the
crowd off the embankment back upon the shore, in order that those who
were really of service might have free room to move. One way or another
they contrived to seize hold of such as were sinking; and with or without
assistance all who had been in the water were got out safe upon the bank,
with the exception of one boy, whose struggles in his fright, instead of

bringing him nearer to the embankment, had only carried him further from
it. His strength seemed to be failing—now only a hand was seen above the
surface, and now a foot. By an unlucky chance the boat was on the opposite
shore filled with fireworks—it was a long business to unload it, and help
was slow in coming. The Captain's resolution was taken; he flung off his
coat; all eyes were directed toward him, and his sturdy vigorous figure gave
every one hope and confidence: but a cry of surprise rose out of the crowd
as they saw him fling himself into the water—every eye watched him as the
strong swimmer swiftly reached the boy, and bore him, although to
appearance dead, to the embankment.

Now came up the boat. The Captain stepped in and examined whether
there were any still missing, or whether they were all safe. The surgeon was
speedily on the spot, and took charge of the inanimate boy. Charlotte joined
them, and entreated the Captain to go now and take care of himself, to hurry
back to the castle and change his clothes. He would not go, however, till
persons on whose sense he could rely, who had been close to the spot at the
time of the accident, and who had assisted in saving those who had fallen
in, assured him that all were safe.

Charlotte saw him on his way to the house, and then she remembered that
the wine and the tea, and everything else which he could want, had been
locked up, for fear any of the servants should take advantage of the disorder
of the holiday, as on such occasions they are too apt to do. She hurried
through the scattered groups of her company, which were loitering about
the plane-trees. Edward was there, talking to every one—beseeching every
one to stay. He would give the signal directly, and the fireworks should
begin. Charlotte went up to him, and entreated him to put off an amusement
which was no longer in place, and which at the present moment no one
could enjoy. She reminded him of what ought to be done for the boy who
had been saved, and for his preserver.

"The surgeon will do whatever is right, no doubt," replied Edward. "He is
provided with everything which he can want, and we should only be in the
way if we crowded about him with our anxieties."

Charlotte persisted in her opinion, and made a sign to Ottilie, who at once
prepared to retire with her. Edward seized her hand, and cried, "We will not
end this day in a lazaretto. She is too good for a sister of mercy. Without us,
I should think, the half-dead may wake, and the living dry themselves."

Charlotte did not answer, but went. Some followed her—others followed
these: in the end, no one wished to be the last, and all followed. Edward and
Ottilie found themselves alone under the plane-trees. He insisted that stay
he would, earnestly, passionately, as she entreated him to go back with her
to the castle. "No, Ottilie!" he cried; "the extraordinary is not brought to
pass in the smooth common way—the wonderful accident of this evening
brings us more speedily together. You are mine—I have often said it to you,
and sworn it to you. We will not say it and swear it any more—we will
make it BE."

The boat came over from the other side. The valet was in it—he asked,
with some embarrassment, what his master wished to have done with the
fireworks?

"Let them off!" Edward cried to him: "let them off! It was only for you
that they were provided, Ottilie, and you shall be the only one to see them!
Let me sit beside you, and enjoy them with you." Tenderly, timidly, he sat
down at her side, without touching her.

Rockets went hissing up—cannon thundered—Roman candles shot out
their blazing balls—squibs flashed and darted—wheels spun round, first
singly, then in pairs, then all at once, faster and faster, one after the other,
and more and more together. Edward, whose bosom was on fire, watched

the blazing spectacle with eyes gleaming with delight; but Ottilie, with her
delicate and nervous feelings, in all this noise and fitful blazing and
flashing, found more to distress her than to please. She leant shrinking
against Edward, and he, as she drew to him and clung to him, felt the
delightful sense that she belonged entirely to him.

The night had scarcely reassumed its rights, when the moon rose and
lighted their path as they walked back. A figure, with his hat in his hand,
stepped across their way, and begged an alms of them—in the general
holiday he said that he had been forgotten. The moon shone upon his face,
and Edward recognized the features of the importunate beggar; but, happy
as he then was, it was impossible for him to be angry with any one. He
could not recollect that, especially for that particular day, begging had been
forbidden under the heaviest penalties—he thrust his hand into his pocket,
took the first coin which he found, and gave the fellow a piece of gold. His
own happiness was so unbounded that he would have liked to share it with
every one.

In the meantime all had gone well at the castle. The skill of the surgeon,
everything which was required being ready at hand, Charlotte's assistance—
all had worked together, and the boy was brought to life again. The guests
dispersed, wishing to catch a glimpse or two of what was to be seen of the
fireworks from the distance; and, after a scene of such confusion, were glad
to get back to their own quiet homes.

The Captain also, after having rapidly changed his dress, had taken an
active part in what required to be done. It was now all quiet again, and he
found himself alone with Charlotte—gently and affectionately he now told
her that his time for leaving them approached. She had gone through so
much that evening, that this discovery made but a slight impression upon
her—she had seen how her friend could sacrifice himself; how he had saved

another, and had himself been saved. These strange incidents seemed to
foretell an important future to her—but not an unhappy one.

Edward, who now entered with Ottilie, was informed at once of the
impending departure of the Captain. He suspected that Charlotte had known
longer how near it was; but he was far too much occupied with himself, and
with his own plans, to take it amiss, or care about it.

On the contrary, he listened attentively, and with signs of pleasure, to the
account of the excellent and honorable position in which the Captain was to
be placed. The course of the future was hurried impetuously forward by his
own secret wishes. Already he saw the Captain married to Charlotte, and
himself married to Ottilie. It would have been the richest present which any
one could have made him, on the occasion of the day's festival!

But how surprised was Ottilie, when, on going to her room, she found
upon her table the beautiful box! Instantly she opened it; inside, all the
things were so nicely packed and arranged that she did not venture to take
them out; she scarcely even ventured to lift them. There were muslin,
cambric, silk, shawls and lace, all rivalling one another in delicacy, beauty,
and costliness—nor were ornaments forgotten. The intention had been, as
she saw well, to furnish her with more than one complete suit of clothes but
it was all so costly, so little like what she had been accustomed to, that she
scarcely dared, even in thought, to believe it could be really for her.

CHAPTER XVI

The next morning the Captain had disappeared, having left a grateful,
feeling letter addressed to his friends upon his table.

[Illustration: P. GROTJOHANN OTTILIE EXAMINES EDWARD'S
PRESENTS]

He and Charlotte had already taken a half leave of each other the evening
before—she felt that the parting was for ever, and she resigned herself to it;
for in the Count's second letter, which the Captain had at last shown to her,
there was a hint of a prospect of an advantageous marriage, and, although
he had paid no attention to it at all, she accepted it for as good as certain,
and gave him up firmly and fully.

Now, therefore, she thought that she had a right to require of others the
same control over themselves which she had exercised herself: it had not
been impossible to her, and it ought not to be impossible to them. With this
feeling she began the conversation with her husband; and she entered upon
it the more openly and easily, from a sense that the question must now, once
for all, be decisively set at rest.

"Our friend has left us," she said; "we are now once more together as we
were—and it depends upon ourselves whether we choose to return
altogether into our old position."

Edward, who heard nothing except what flattered his own passion,
believed that Charlotte, in these words, was alluding to her previous
widowed state, and, in a roundabout way, was making a suggestion for a
separation; so that he answered, with a laugh, "Why not? all we want is to
come to an understanding." But he found himself sorely enough
undeceived, as Charlotte continued, "And we have now a choice of
opportunities for placing Ottilie in another situation. Two openings have
offered themselves for her, either of which will do very well. Either she can
return to the school, as my daughter has left it and is with her great-aunt; or
she can be received into a desirable family, where, as the companion of an
only child, she will enjoy all the advantages of a solid education."

Edward, with a tolerably successful effort at commanding himself,
replied, "Ottilie has been so much spoilt, by living so long with us here, that
she will scarcely like to leave us now."

"We have all of us been too much spoilt," said Charlotte; "and yourself
not least. This is an epoch which requires us seriously to bethink ourselves.
It is a solemn warning to us to consider what is really for the good of all the
members of our little circle—and we ourselves must not be afraid of
making sacrifices."

"At any rate I cannot see that it is right that Ottilie should be made a
sacrifice," replied Edward; "and that would be the case if we were now to
allow her to be sent away among strangers. The Captain's good genius has
sought him out here—we can feel easy, we can feel happy, at seeing him
leave us; but who can tell what may be before Ottilie? There is no occasion
for haste."

"What is before us is sufficiently clear," Charlotte answered, with some
emotion; and as she was determined to have it all out at once, she went on:
"You love Ottilie; every day you are becoming more attached to her. A

reciprocal feeling is rising on her side as well, and feeding itself in the same
way. Why should we not acknowledge in words what every hour makes
obvious? and are we not to have the common prudence to ask ourselves in
what it is to end?"

"We may not be able to find an answer on the moment," replied Edward,
collecting himself; "but so much may be said, that if we cannot exactly tell
what will come of it, we may resign ourselves to wait and see what the
future may tell us about it."

"No great wisdom is required to prophesy here," answered Charlotte;
"and, at any rate, we ought to feel that you and I are past the age when
people may walk blindly where they should not or ought not to go. There is
no one else to take care of us—we must be our own friends, our own
managers. No one expects us to commit ourselves in an outrage upon
decency: no one expects that we are going to expose ourselves to censure or
to ridicule."

"How can you so mistake me?" said Edward, unable to reply to his wife's
clear, open words. "Can you find it a fault in me, if I am anxious about
Ottilie's happiness? I do not mean future happiness—no one can count on
that—but what is present, palpable, and immediate. Consider, don't deceive
yourself; consider frankly Ottilie's case, torn away from us, and sent to live
among strangers. I, at least, am not cruel enough to propose such a change
for her!"

Charlotte saw too clearly into her husband's intentions, through this
disguise. For the first time she felt how far he had estranged himself from
her. Her voice shook a little. "Will Ottilie be happy if she divides us?" she
asked. "If she deprives me of a husband, and his children of a father!"

"Our children, I should have thought, were sufficiently provided for,"
said Edward, with a cold smile; adding, rather more kindly, "but why at
once expect the very worst?"

"The very worst is too sure to follow this passion of yours," returned
Charlotte; "do not refuse good advice while there is yet time; do not throw
away the means which I propose to save us. In troubled cases those must
work and help who see the clearest—this time it is I. Dear, dearest Edward!
listen to me—can you propose to me that now at once I shall renounce my
happiness! renounce my fairest rights! renounce you!"

"Who says that?" replied Edward, with some embarrassment.

"You, yourself," answered Charlotte; "in determining to keep Ottilie here,
are you not acknowledging everything which must arise out of it? I will
urge nothing on you—but if you cannot conquer yourself, at least you will
not be able much longer to deceive yourself."

Edward felt how right she was. It is fearful to hear spoken out, in words,
what the heart has gone on long permitting to itself in secret. To escape only
for a moment, Edward answered, "It is not yet clear to me what you want."

"My intention," she replied, "was to talk over with you these two
proposals—each of them has its advantages. The school would be best
suited to her, as she now is; but the other situation is larger, and wider, and
promises more, when I think what she may become." She then detailed to
her husband circumstantially what would lie before Ottilie in each position,
and concluded with the words, "For my own part I should prefer the lady's
house to the school, for more reasons than one; but particularly because I
should not like the affection, the love indeed, of the young man there, which
Ottilie has gained, to increase."

Edward appeared to approve; but it was only to find some means of
delay. Charlotte, who desired to commit him to a definite step, seized the
opportunity, as Edward made no immediate opposition, to settle Ottilie's
departure, for which she had already privately made all preparations, for the
next day.

Edward shuddered—he thought he was betrayed. His wife's affectionate
speech he fancied was an artfully contrived trick to separate him for ever
from his happiness. He appeared to leave the thing entirely to her; but in his
heart his resolution was already taken. To gain time to breathe, to put off the
immediate intolerable misery of Ottilie's being sent away, he determined to
leave his house. He told Charlotte he was going; but he had blinded her to
his real reason, by telling her that he would not be present at Ottilie's
departure; indeed, that, from that moment, he would see her no more.
Charlotte, who believed that she had gained her point, approved most
cordially. He ordered his horse, gave his valet the necessary directions what
to pack up, and where he should follow him; and then, on the point of
departure, he sat down and wrote:

"EDWARD TO CHARLOTTE

"The misfortune, my love, which has befallen us, may or may not admit
of remedy; only this I feel, that if I am not at once to be driven to despair, I
must find some means of delay for myself, and for all of us. In making
myself the sacrifice, I have a right to make a request. I am leaving my
home, and I return to it only under happier and more peaceful auspices.
While I am away, you keep possession of it—but with Ottilie. I choose to
know that she is with you, and not among strangers. Take care of her; treat
her as you have treated her—only more lovingly, more kindly, more
tenderly! I promise that I will not attempt any secret intercourse with her.
Leave me, as long a time as you please, without knowing anything about

you. I will not allow myself to be anxious—nor need you be uneasy about
me: only, with all my heart and soul, I beseech you, make no attempt to
send Ottilie away, or to introduce her into any other situation. Beyond the
circle of the castle and the park, placed in the hands of strangers, she
belongs to me, and I will take possession of her! If you have any regard for
my affection, for my wishes, for my sufferings, you will leave me alone to
my madness; and if any hope of recovery from it should ever hereafter offer
itself to me, I will not resist."

Thus last sentence ran off his pen—not out of his heart. Even when he
saw it upon the paper, he began bitterly to weep. That he, under any
circumstances, should renounce the happiness—even the wretchedness—of
loving Ottilie! He only now began to feel what he was doing—he was going
away without knowing what was to be the result. At any rate he was not to
see her again now—with what certainty could he promise himself that he
would ever see her again? But the letter was written—the horses were at the
door; every moment he was afraid he might see Ottilie somewhere, and then
his whole purpose would go to the winds. He collected himself—he
remembered that, at any rate, he would be able to return at any moment he
pleased; and that by his absence he would have advanced nearer to his
wishes: on the other side, he pictured Ottilie to himself forced to leave the
house if he stayed. He sealed the letter, ran down the steps, and sprang upon
his horse.

As he rode past the hotel, he saw the beggar to whom he had given so
much money the night before, sitting under the trees; the man was busy
enjoying his dinner, and, as Edward passed, stood up, and made him the
humblest obeisance. That figure had appeared to him yesterday, when
Ottilie was on his arm; now it only served as a bitter reminiscence of the
happiest hour of his life. His grief redoubled. The feeling of what he was
leaving behind was intolerable. He looked again at the beggar. "Happy

wretch!" he cried, "you can still feed upon the alms of yesterday—and I
cannot any more on the happiness of yesterday!"

CHAPTER XVII

Ottilie heard some one ride away, and went to the window in time just to
catch a sight of Edward's back. It was strange, she thought, that he should
have left the house without seeing her, without having even wished her
good morning. She grew uncomfortable, and her anxiety did not diminish
when Charlotte took her out for a long walk, and talked of various other
things; but not once, and apparently on purpose, mentioning her husband.
When they returned she found the table laid with only two covers. It is
unpleasant to miss even the most trifling thing to which we have been
accustomed. In serious things such a loss becomes miserably painful.
Edward and the Captain were not there. The first time, for a long while,
Charlotte sat at the head of the table herself—and it seemed to Ottilie as if
she was deposed. The two ladies sat opposite each other; Charlotte talked,
without the least embarrassment, of the Captain and his appointment, and of
the little hope there was of seeing him again for a long time. The only
comfort Ottilie could find for herself was in the idea that Edward had ridden
after his friend, to accompany him a part of his journey.

On rising from table, however, they saw Edward's traveling carriage
under the window. Charlotte, a little as if she was put out, asked who had
had it brought round there. She was told it was the valet, who had some
things there to pack up. It required all Ottilie Is self-command to conceal
her wonder and her distress.

The valet came in, and asked if they would be so good as to let him have
a drinking cup of his master's, a pair of silver spoons, and a number of other
things, which seemed to Ottilie to imply that he was gone some distance,
and would be away for a long time.

Charlotte gave him a very cold, dry answer. She did not know what he
meant—he had everything belonging to his master under his own care.
What the man wanted was to speak a word to Ottilie, and on some pretence
or other to get her out of the room; he made some clever excuse, and
persisted in his request so far that Ottilie asked if she should go to look for
the things for him? But Charlotte quietly said that she had better not. The
valet had to depart, and the carriage rolled away.

It was a dreadful moment for Ottilie. She understood nothing—
comprehended nothing. She could only feel that Edward had been parted
from her for a long time. Charlotte felt for her situation, and left her to
herself.

We will not attempt to describe what she went through, or how she wept.
She suffered infinitely. She prayed that God would help her only over this
one day. The day passed, and the night, and when she came to herself again
she felt herself a changed being.

She had not grown composed. She was not resigned, but after having lost
what she had lost, she was still alive, and there was still something for her
to fear. Her anxiety, after returning to consciousness, was at once lest, now
that the gentlemen were gone, she might be sent away too. She never
guessed at Edward's threats, which had secured her remaining with her aunt.
Yet Charlotte's manner served partially to reassure her. The latter exerted
herself to find employment for the poor girl, and hardly ever,—never, if she
could help it,—left her out of her sight; and although she knew well how
little words can do against the power of passion, yet she knew, too, the sure

though slow influence of thought and reflection, and therefore missed no
opportunity of inducing Ottilie to talk with her on every variety of subject.

It was no little comfort to Ottilie when one day Charlotte took an
opportunity of making (she did it on purpose) the wise observation, "How
keenly grateful people were to us when we were able by stilling and
calming them to help them out of the entanglements of passion! Let us set
cheerfully to work," she said, "at what the men have left incomplete: we
shall be preparing the most charming surprise for them when they return to
us, and our temperate proceedings will have carried through and executed
what their impatient natures would have spoilt."

"Speaking of temperance, my dear aunt, I cannot help saying how I am
struck with the intemperance of men, particularly in respect of wine. It has
often pained and distressed me, when I have observed how, for hours
together, clearness of understanding, judgment, considerateness, and
whatever is most amiable about them, will be utterly gone, and instead of
the good which they might have done if they had been themselves, most
disagreeable things sometimes threaten. How often may not wrong, rash
determinations have arisen entirely from that one cause!"

Charlotte assented, but she did not go on with the subject. She saw only
too clearly that it was Edward of whom Ottilie was thinking. It was not
exactly habitual with him, but he allowed himself much more frequently
than was at all desirable to stimulate his enjoyment and his power of talking
and acting by such indulgence. If what Charlotte had just said had set
Ottilie thinking again about men, and particularly about Edward, she was all
the more struck and startled when her aunt began to speak of the impending
marriage of the Captain as of a thing quite settled and acknowledged. This
gave a totally different aspect to affairs from what Edward had previously
led her to entertain. It made her watch every expression of Charlotte's,

every hint, every action, every step. Ottilie had become jealous, sharp-eyed,
and suspicious, without knowing it.

Meanwhile, Charlotte with her clear glance looked through the whole
circumstances of their situation, and made arrangements which would
provide, among other advantages, full employment for Ottilie. She
contracted her household, not parsimoniously, but into narrower
dimensions; and, indeed, in one point of view, these moral aberrations
might be taken for a not unfortunate accident. For in the style in which they
had been going on, they had fallen imperceptibly into extravagance; and
from a want of seasonable reflection, from the rate at which they had been
living, and from the variety of schemes into which they had been launching
out, their fine fortune, which had been in excellent condition, had been
shaken, if not seriously injured.

The improvements which were going on in the park she did not interfere
with; she rather sought to advance whatever might form a basis for future
operations. But here, too, she assigned herself a limit. Her husband on his
return should still find abundance to amuse himself with.

In all this work she could not sufficiently value the assistance of the
young architect. In a short time the lake lay stretched out under her eyes, its
new shores turfed and planted with the most discriminating and excellent
judgment. The rough work at the new house was all finished. Everything
which was necessary to protect it from the weather she took care to see
provided, and there for the present she allowed it to rest in a condition in
which what remained to be done could hereafter be readily commenced
again. Thus hour by hour she recovered her spirits and her cheerfulness.
Ottilie only seemed to have done so. She was only for ever watching, in all
that was said and done, for symptoms which might show her whether

Edward would be soon returning: and this one thought was the only one in
which she felt any interest.

It was, therefore, a very welcome proposal to her when it was suggested
that they should get together the boys of the peasants, and employ them in
keeping the park clean and neat. Edward had long entertained the idea. A
pleasant—looking sort of uniform was made for them, which they were to
put on in the evenings after they had been properly cleaned and washed.
The wardrobe was kept in the castle; the more sensible and ready of the
boys themselves were intrusted with the management of it—the Architect
acting as chief director. In a very short time, the children acquired a kind of
character. It was found easy to mold them into what was desired; and they
went through their work not without a sort of manoeuvre. As they marched
along, with their garden shears, their long-handled pruning-knives, their
rakes, their little spades and hoes, and sweeping-brooms; others following
after these with baskets to carry off the stones and rubbish; and others, last
of all, trailing along the heavy iron roller—it was a thoroughly pretty,
delightful procession. The Architect observed in it a beautiful series of
situations and occupations to ornament the frieze of a garden-house. Ottilie,
on the other hand, could see nothing in it but a kind of parade, to salute the
master of the house on his near return.

And this stimulated her and made her wish to begin something of the sort
herself. They had before endeavored to encourage the girls of the village in
knitting, and sewing, and spinning, and whatever else women could do; and
since what had been done for the improvement of the village itself, there
had been a perceptible advance in these descriptions of industry. Ottilie had
given what assistance was in her power, but she had given it at random, as
opportunity or inclination prompted her; now she thought she—would go to
work more satisfactorily and methodically. But a company is not to be
formed out of a number of girls, as easily as out of a number of boys. She

followed her own good sense, and,—without being exactly conscious of it,
her efforts were solely directed toward connecting every girl as closely as
possible each with her own home, her own parents, brothers and sisters: and
she succeeded with many of them. One lively little creature only was
incessantly complained of as showing no capacity for work, and as never
likely to do anything if she were left at home.

Ottilie could not be angry with the girl, for to herself the little thing was
especially attached—she clung to her, went after her, and ran about with
her, whenever she was permitted—and then she would be active and
cheerful and never tire. It appeared to be a necessity of the child's nature to
hang about a beautiful mistress. At first, Ottilie allowed her to be her
companion; then she herself began to feel a sort of affection for her; and, at
last, they never parted at all, and Nanny attended her mistress wherever she
went.

The latter's footsteps were often bent toward the garden, where she liked
to watch the beautiful show of fruit. It was just the end of the raspberry and
cherry season, the few remains of which were no little delight to Nanny. On
the other trees there was a promise of a magnificent bearing for the autumn,
and the gardener talked of nothing but his master and how he wished that he
might be at home to enjoy it. Ottilie could listen to the good old man
forever! He thoroughly understood his business; and Edward—Edward—
Edward—was for ever the theme of his praise!

Ottilie observed how well all the grafts which had been budded in the
spring had taken. "I only wish," the gardener answered, "my good master
may come to enjoy them. If he were here this autumn, he would see what
beautiful sorts there are in the old castle garden, which the late lord, his
honored father, put there. I think the fruit-gardeners there are now don't
succeed as well as the Carthusians used to do. We find many fine names in

the catalogue, and then we bud from them, and bring up the shoots, and, at
last, when they come to bear, it is not worth while to have such trees
standing in our garden."

Over and over again, whenever the faithful old servant saw Ottilie, he
asked when his master might be expected home; and when Ottilie had
nothing to tell him, he would look vexed, and let her see in his manner that
he thought she did not care to tell him: the sense of uncertainty which was
thus forced upon her became painful beyond measure, and yet she could
never be absent from these beds and borders. What she and Edward had
sown and planted together were now in full flower, requiring no further care
from her, except that Nanny should be at hand with the watering-pot; and
who shall say with what sensations she watched the later flowers, which
were just beginning to show, and which were to be in the bloom of their
beauty on Edward's birthday, the holiday to which she had looked forward
with such eagerness, when these flowers were to have expressed her
affection and her gratitude to him! But the hopes which she had formed of
that festival were dead now, and doubt and anxiety never ceased to haunt
the soul of the poor girl.

Into real open, hearty understanding with Charlotte, there was no more a
chance of her being able to return; for indeed, the position of these two
ladies was very different. If things could remain in their old state—if it were
possible that they could return again into the smooth, even way of calm,
ordered life, Charlotte gained everything; she gained happiness for the
present, and a happy future opened before her. On the other hand, for Ottilie
all was lost—one may say, all; for she had first found in Edward what life
and happiness meant; and, in her present position, she felt an infinite and
dreary chasm of which before she could have formed no conception. A heart
which seeks, feels well that it wants something; a heart which has lost, feels
that something is gone—its yearning and its longing change into uneasy

impatience—and a woman's spirit, which is accustomed to waiting and to
enduring, must now pass out from its proper sphere, must become active
and attempt and do something to make its own happiness. Ottilie had not
given up Edward—how could she? Although Charlotte, wisely enough, in
spite of her conviction to the contrary, assumed it as a thing of course, and
resolutely took it as decided that a quiet rational regard was possible
between her husband and Ottilie. How often, however, did not Ottilie
remain at nights, after bolting herself into her room, on her knees before the
open box, gazing at the birthday presents, of which as yet she had not
touched a single thing—not cut out or made up a single dress! How often
with the sunrise did the poor girl hurry out of the house, in which she once
had found all her happiness, away into the free air, into the country which
then had had no charms for her. Even on the solid earth she could not bear
to stay; she would spring into the boat, row out into the middle of the lake,
and there, drawing out some book of travels, lie rocked by the motion of the
waves, reading and dreaming that she was far away, where she would never
fail to find her friend—she remaining ever nearest to his heart, and he to
hers.

CHAPTER XVIII

It may easily be supposed that the strange, busy gentleman, whose
acquaintance we have already made—Mittler—as soon as he received
information of the disorder which had broken out among his friends, felt
desirous, though neither side had as yet called on him for assistance, to
fulfil a friend's part toward them, and do what he could to help them in their
misfortune. He thought it advisable, however, to wait first a little while;
knowing too well, as he did, that it was more difficult to come to the aid of
cultivated persons in their moral perplexities, than of the uncultivated. He
left them, therefore, for some time to themselves; but at last he could
withhold no longer, and he hastened to seek out Edward, on whose traces he
had already lighted. His road led him to a pleasant, pretty valley, with a
range of green, sweetly-wooded meadows, down the centre of which ran a
never-failing stream, sometimes winding slowly along, then tumbling and
rushing among rocks and stones. The hills sloped gently up on either side,
covered with rich corn-fields and well-kept orchards. The villages were at
proper distances from one another. The whole had a peaceful character
about it, and the detached scenes seemed designed expressly, if not for
painting, at least for life.

At last a neatly kept farm, with a clean, modest dwelling-house, situated
in the middle of a garden, fell under his eye. He conjectured that this was
Edward's present abode; and he was not mistaken.

Of this our friend in his solitude we have only thus much to say—that in
his seclusion he was resigning himself utterly to the feeling of his passion,
thinking out plan after plan, and feeding himself with innumerable hopes.
He could not deny that he longed to see Ottilie there; that he would like to
carry her off there, to tempt her there; and whatever else (putting, as he now
did, no check upon his thoughts) pleased to suggest itself, whether
permitted or unpermitted. Then his imagination wandered up and down,
picturing every sort of possibility. If he could not have her there, if he could
not lawfully possess her, he would secure to her the possession of the
property for her own. There she should live for herself, silently,
independently; she should be happy in that spot—sometimes his self-
torturing mood would lead him further—be happy in it, perhaps, with
another.

So days flowed away in increasing oscillation between hope and
suffering, between tears and happiness—between purposes, preparations,
and despair. The sight of Mittler did not surprise him; he had long expected
that he would come; and now that he did, he was partly welcome to him. He
believed that he had been sent by Charlotte. He had prepared himself with
all manner of excuses and delays; and if these would not serve, with
decided refusals; or else, perhaps, he might hope to learn something of
Ottilie—and then he would be as dear to him as a messenger from heaven.

Not a little vexed and annoyed was Edward, therefore, when he
understood that Mittler had not come from the castle at all, but of his own
free accord. His heart closed up, and at first the conversation would not
open itself. Mittler, however, knew very well that a heart that is occupied
with love has an urgent necessity to express itself—to pour out to a friend
what is passing within it; and he allowed himself, therefore, after a few
speeches backward and forward, for this once to go out of his character and
play the confidant in place of the mediator. He had calculated justly. He had

been finding fault in a good-natured way with Edward for burying himself
in that lonely place, upon which Edward replied:

"I do not know how I could spend my time more agreeably. I am always
occupied with her; I am always close to her. I have the inestimable comfort
of being able to think where Ottilie is at each moment—where she is going,
where she is standing, where she is reposing. I see her moving and acting
before me as usual; ever doing or designing something which is to give me
pleasure. But this will not always answer; for how can I be happy away
from her? And then my fancy begins to work; I think what Ottilie should do
to come to me; I write sweet, loving letters in her name to myself, and then
I answer them, and keep the sheets together. I have promised that I will take
no steps to seek her; and that promise I will keep. But what binds her that
she should make no advances to me I Has Charlotte had the barbarity to
exact a promise, to exact an oath from her, not to write to me, not to send
me a word, a hint, about herself? Very likely she has. It is only natural; and
yet to me it is monstrous, it is horrible. If she loves me—as I think, as I
know that she does—why does she not resolve, why does she not venture to
fly to me, and throw herself into my arms? I often think she ought to do it;
and she could do it. If I ever hear a noise in the hall, I look toward the door.
It must be her—she is coming—I look up to see her. Alas! because the
possible is impossible, I let myself imagine that the impossible must
become possible. At night, when I lie awake, and the lamp flings an
uncertain light about the room, her form, her spirit, a sense of her presence,
sweeps over me, approaches me, seizes me. It is but for a moment; it is that
I may have an assurance that she is thinking of me, that she is mine. Only
one pleasure remains to me. When I was with her I never dreamt of her;
now when I am far away, and, oddly enough, since I have made the
acquaintance of other attractive persons in this neighborhood, for the first
time her figure appears to me in my dreams, as if she would say to me,
'Look on them, and on me. You will find none more beautiful, more lovely

than I.' And so she is present in every dream I have. In whatever happens to
me with her, we are woven in and in together. Now we are subscribing a
contract together. There is her hand, and there is mine; there is her name,
and there is mine; and they move one into the other, and seem to devour
each other. Sometimes she does something which injures the pure idea
which I have of her; and then I feel how intensely I love her, by the
indescribable anguish which it causes me. Again, unlike herself, she will
rally and vex me; and then at once the figure changes—her sweet, round,
heavenly face draws out; it is not she, it is another; but I lie vexed,
dissatisfied and wretched. Laugh not, dear Mittler, or laugh on as you will. I
am not ashamed of this attachment, of this—if you please to call it so—
foolish, frantic passion. No, I never loved before. It is only now that I know
what to love means. Till now, what I have called life was nothing but its
prelude—amusement, sport to kill the time with. I never lived till I knew
her, till I loved her—entirely and only loved her. People have often said of
me, not to my face, but behind my back, that in most things I was but a
botcher and a bungler. It may be so; for I had not then found in what I could
show myself a master. I should like to see the man who outdoes me in the
talent of love. A miserable life it is, full of anguish and tears; but it is so
natural, so dear to me, that I could hardly change it for another."

Edward had relieved himself slightly by this violent unloading of his
heart. But in doing so every feature of his strange condition had been
brought out so clearly before his eyes that, overpowered by the pain of the
struggle, he burst into tears, which flowed all the more freely as his heart
had been made weak by telling it all.

Mittler, who was the less disposed to put a check on his inexorable good
sense and strong, vigorous feeling, because by this violent outbreak of
passion on Edward's part he saw himself driven far from the purpose of his
coming, showed sufficiently decided marks of his disapprobation. Edward

should act as a man, he said; he should remember what he owed to himself
as a man. He should not forget that the highest honor was to command
ourselves in misfortune; to bear pain, if it must be so, with equanimity and
self-collectedness. That was what we should do, if we wished to be valued
and looked up to as examples of what was right.

Stirred and penetrated as Edward was with the bitterest feelings, words
like these could but have a hollow, worthless sound.

"It is well," he cried, "for the man who is happy, who has all that he
desires, to talk; but he would be ashamed of it if he could see how
intolerable it was to the sufferer. Nothing short of an infinite endurance
would be enough, and easy and contented as he was, what could he know of
an infinite agony? There are cases," he continued, "yes, there are, where
comfort is a lie, and despair is a duty. Go, heap your scorn upon the noble
Greek, who well knows how to delineate heroes, when in their anguish he
lets those heroes weep. He has even a proverb, 'Men who can weep are
good.' Leave me, all you with dry heart and dry eye. Curses on the happy, to
whom the wretched serve but for a spectacle. When body and soul are torn
in pieces with agony, they are to bear it—yes, to be noble and bear it, if they
are to be allowed to go off the scene with applause. Like the gladiators, they
must die gracefully before the eyes of the multitude. My dear Mittler, I
thank you for your visit; but really you would oblige me much, if you
would go out and look about you in the garden. We will meet again. I will
try to compose myself, and become more like you."

Mittler was unwilling to let a conversation drop which it might be
difficult to begin again, and still persevered. Edward, too, was quite ready
to go on with it; besides that of itself, it was tending toward the issue which
he desired.

"Indeed," said the latter, "This thinking and arguing backward and
forward leads to nothing. In this very conversation I myself have first come
to understand myself; I have first felt decided as to what I must make up my
mind to do. My present and my future life I see before me; I have to choose
only between misery and happiness. Do you, my best friend, bring about the
separation which must take place, which, in fact, is already made; gain
Charlotte's consent for me. I will not enter upon the reasons why I believe
there will be the less difficulty in prevailing upon her. You, my dear friend,
must go. Go, and give us all peace; make us all happy."

Mittler hesitated. Edward continued:

"My fate and Ottilie's cannot be divided, and shall not be shipwrecked.
Look at this glass; our initials are engraved upon it. A gay reveller flung it
into the air, that no one should drink of it more. It was to fall on the rock
and be dashed to pieces; but it did not fall; it was caught. At a high price I
bought it back, and now I drink out of it daily—to convince myself that the
connection between us cannot be broken; that destiny has decided."

"Alas! alas!" cried Mittler, "what must I not endure with my friends?
Here comes superstition, which of all things I hate the worse—the most
mischievous and accursed of all the plagues of mankind. We trifle with
prophecies, with forebodings, and dreams, and give a seriousness to our
every-day life with them; but when the seriousness of life itself begins to
show, when everything around us is heaving and rolling, then come in these
spectres to make the storm more terrible."

"In this uncertainty of life," cried Edward, "poised as it is between hope
and fear, leave the poor heart its guiding-star. It may gaze toward it, if it
cannot steer toward it."

"Yes, I might leave it; and it would be very well," replied Mittler, "if
there were but one consequence to expect; but I have always found that
nobody will attend to symptoms of warning. Man cares for nothing except
what flatters him and promises him fair; and his faith is alive exclusively
for the sunny side."

Mittler, finding himself carried off into the shadowy regions, in which the
longer he remained the more uncomfortable he always felt, was the more
ready to assent to Edward's eager wish that he should go to Charlotte.
Indeed, if he stayed, what was there further which at that moment he could
urge on Edward? To gain time, to inquire in what state things were with the
ladies, was the best thing which even he himself could suggest as at present
possible.

He hastened to Charlotte, whom he found as usual, calm and in good
spirits. She told him readily of everything which had occurred; for from
what Edward had said he had only been able to gather the effects. On his
own side, he felt his way with the utmost caution. He could not prevail
upon himself even cursorily to mention the word separation. It was a
surprise, indeed, to him, but from his point of view an unspeakably
delightful one, when Charlotte, at the end of a number of unpleasant things,
finished with saying:

"I must believe, I must hope, that things will all work round again, and
that Edward will return to me. How can it be otherwise as soon as I become
a mother?"

"Do I understand you right?" returned Mittler.

"Perfectly," Charlotte answered.

"A thousand times blessed be this news!" he cried, clasping his hands
together. "I know the strength of this argument on the mind of a man. Many
a marriage have I seen first cemented by it, and restored again when broken.
Such a good hope as this is worth more than a thousand words. Now indeed
it is the best hope which we can have. For myself, though," he continued, "I
have all reason to be vexed about it. In this case I can see clearly no self-
love of mine will be flattered. I shall earn no thanks from you by my
services; I am in the same case as a certain medical friend of mine, who
succeeds in all cures which he undertakes with the poor for the love of God;
but can seldom do anything for the rich who will pay him. Here, thank God,
the thing cures itself, after all my talking and trying had proved fruitless."

Charlotte now asked him if he would carry the news to Edward: if he
would take a letter to him from her, and then see what should be done. But
he declined undertaking this. "All is done," he cried; "do you write your
letter—any messenger will do as well as I—I will come back to wish you
joy. I will come to the christening!"

For this refusal she was vexed with him—as she frequently was. His
eager, impetuous character brought about much good; but his over-haste
was the occasion of many a failure. No one was more dependent than he on
the impressions which he formed on the moment. Charlotte's messenger
came to Edward, who received him half in terror. The letter was to decide
his fate, and it might as well contain No as Yes. He did not venture, for a
long time, to open it. At last he tore off the cover, and stood petrified at the
following passage, with which it concluded:

"Remember the night-adventure when you visited your wife as a lover—
how you drew her to you, and clasped her as a well-beloved bride in your
arms. In this strange accident let us revere the providence of heaven, which

has woven a new link to bind us, at the moment when the happiness of our
lives was threatening to fall asunder and to vanish."

What passed from that moment in Edward's soul it would be difficult to
describe! Under the weight of such a stroke, old habits and fancies come
out again to assist to kill the time and fill up the chasms of life. Hunting and
fighting are an ever-ready resource of this kind for a nobleman; Edward
longed for some outward peril, as a counterbalance to the storm within him.
He craved for death, because the burden of life threatened to become too
heavy for him to bear. It comforted him to think that he would soon cease to
be, and so would make those whom he loved happy by his departure.

No one made any difficulty in his doing what he purposed—because he
kept his intention a secret. He made his will with all due formalities. It gave
him a very sweet feeling to secure Ottilie's fortune—provision was made
for Charlotte, for the unborn child, for the Captain, and for the servants. The
war, which had again broken out, favored his wishes: he had disliked
exceedingly the half-soldiering which had fallen to him in his youth, and
that was the reason why he had left the service. Now it gave him a fine
exhilarating feeling to be able to rejoin it under a commander of whom it
could be said that, under his conduct, death was likely and victory was sure.

Ottilie, when Charlotte's secret was made known to her, bewildered by it,
like Edward, and more than he, retired into herself—she had nothing further
to say: hope she could not, and wish she dared not. A glimpse into what was
passing in her we can gather from her Diary, some passages of which we
think to communicate.

There often happens to us in common life what, in an epic poem, we are
accustomed to praise as a stroke of art in the poet; namely, that when the
chief figures go off the scene, conceal themselves or retire into inactivity,
some other or others, whom hitherto we have scarcely observed, come

forward and fill their places. And these putting out all their force, at once
fix our attention and sympathy on themselves, and earn our praise and
admiration.

Thus, after the Captain and Edward were gone, the Architect, of whom
we have spoken, appeared every day a more important person. The ordering
and executing of a number of undertakings depended entirely upon him,
and he proved himself thoroughly understanding and businesslike in the
style in which he went to work; while in a number of other ways he was
able also to make himself of assistance to the ladies, and find amusement
for their weary hours. His outward air and appearance were of the kind
which win confidence and awake affection. A youth in the full sense of the
word, well-formed, tall, perhaps a little too stout; modest without being
timid, and easy without being obtrusive, there was no work and no trouble
which he was not delighted to take upon himself; and as he could keep
accounts with great facility, the whole economy of the household soon was
no secret to him, and everywhere his salutary influence made itself felt. Any
stranger who came he was commonly set to entertain, and he was skilful
either at declining unexpected visits, or at least so far preparing the ladies
for them as to spare them any disagreeableness.

Among others, he had one day no little trouble with a young lawyer, who
had been sent by a neighboring nobleman to speak about a matter which,
although of no particular moment, yet touched Charlotte to the quick. We
have to mention this incident because it gave occasion for a number of
things which otherwise might perhaps have remained long untouched.

We remember certain alterations which Charlotte had made in the
churchyard. The entire body of the monuments had been removed from
their places, and had been ranged along the walls of the church, leaning
against the string-course. The remaining space had been levelled, except a

broad walk which led up to the church, and past it to the opposite gate; and
it had been all sown with various kinds of trefoil, which had shot up and
flowered most beautifully.

The new graves were to follow one after another in a regular order from
the end, but the spot on each occasion was to be carefully smoothed over
and again sown. No one could deny that on Sundays and holidays when the
people went to church the change had given it a most cheerful and pleasant
appearance. At the same time the clergyman, an old man and clinging to old
customs, who at first had not been especially pleased with the alteration,
had become thoroughly delighted with it, all the more because when he sat
out like Philemon with his Baucis under the old linden trees at his back
door, instead of the humps and mounds he had a beautiful clean lawn to
look out upon; and which, moreover, Charlotte having secured the use of
the spot to the Parsonage, was no little convenience to his household.

Notwithstanding this, however, many members of the congregation had
been displeased that the means of marking the spots where their forefathers
rested had been removed, and all memorials of them thereby obliterated.
However well preserved the monuments might be, they could only show
who had been buried, but not where he had been buried, and the where, as
many maintained, was everything.

Of this opinion was a family in the neighborhood, who for many years
had been in possession of a considerable vault for a general resting-place of
themselves and their relations, and in consequence had settled a small
annual sum for the use of the church. And now this young lawyer had been
sent to cancel this settlement, and to show that his client did not intend to
pay it any more, because the conditions under which it had been hitherto
made had not been observed by the other party, and no regard had been paid
to objection and remonstrance. Charlotte, who was the originator of the

alteration herself, chose to speak to the young man, who in a decided
though not a violent manner, laid down the grounds on which his client
proceeded, and gave occasion in what he said for much serious reflection.

"You see," he said, after a slight introduction, in which he sought to
justify his peremptoriness; "you see, it is right for the lowest as well as for
the highest to mark the spot which holds those who are dearest to him. The
poorest, peasant, who buries a child, finds it some consolation to plant a
light wooden cross upon the grave, and hang a garland upon it, to keep alive
the memorial, at least as long as the sorrow remains; although such a mark,
like the mourning, will pass away with time. Those better off change the
cross of wood into iron, and fix it down and guard it in various ways; and
here we have endurance for many years. But because this too will sink at
last, and become invisible, those who are able to bear the expense see
nothing fitter than to raise a stone which shall promise to endure for
generations, and which can be restored and made fresh again by posterity.
Yet this stone it is not which attracts us; it is that which is contained beneath
it, which is intrusted, where it stands, to the earth. It is not the memorial so
much of which we speak, as of the person himself; not of what once was,
but of what is. Far better, far more closely, can I embrace some dear
departed one in the mound which rises over his bed, than in a monumental
writing which only tells us that once he was. In itself, indeed, it is but little;
but around it, as around a central mark, the wife, the husband, the kinsman,
the friend, after their departure, shall gather in again; and the living shall
have the right to keep far off all strangers and evil-wishers from the side of
the dear one who is sleeping there. And, therefore, I hold it quite fair and
fitting that my principal shall withdraw his grant to you. It is, indeed, but
too reasonable that he should do it, for the members of his family are
injured in a way for which no compensation could be even proposed. They
are deprived of the sad sweet feelings of laying offerings on the remains of

their dead, and of the one comfort in their sorrow of one day lying down at
their side."

"The matter is not of that importance," Charlotte answered, "that we
should disquiet ourselves about it with the vexation of a lawsuit. I regret so
little what I have done, that I will gladly myself indemnify the church for
what it loses through you. Only I must confess candidly to you, your
arguments have not convinced me; the pure feeling of an universal equality
at last, after death, seems to me more composing than this hard determined
persistence in our personalities and in the conditions and circumstances of
our lives. What do you say to it?" she added, turning to the Architect.

"It is not for me," replied he, "either to argue, or to attempt to judge in
such a case. Let me venture, however, to say what my own art and my own
habits of thinking suggest to me. Since we are no longer so happy as to be
able to press to our breasts the in-urned remains of those we have loved;
since we are neither wealthy enough nor of cheerful heart enough to
preserve them undecayed in large elaborate sarcophagi; since, indeed, we
cannot even find place any more for ourselves and ours in the churches, and
are banished out into the open air, we all, I think, ought to approve the
method which you, my gracious lady, have introduced. If the members of a
common congregation are laid out side by side, they are resting by the side
of, and among their kindred; and, if the earth be once to receive us all, I can
find nothing more natural or more desirable than that the mounds, which, if
they are thrown up, are sure to sink slowly in again together, should be
smoothed off at once, and the covering, which all bear alike, will press
lighter upon each."

"And is it all, is it all to pass away," asked Ottilie, "without one token of
remembrance, without anything to call back the past?"

"By no means," continued the Architect; "it is not from remembrance, it
is from place that men should be set free. The architect, the sculptor, are
highly interested that men should look to their art—to their hand, for a
continuance of their being; and, therefore, I should wish to see well-
designed, well-executed monuments; not sown up and down by themselves
at random, but erected all in a single spot, where they can promise
themselves endurance. Inasmuch as even the good and the great are
contented to surrender the privilege of resting in person in the churches, we
may, at least, erect there or in some fair hall near the burying place, either
monuments or monumental writings. A thousand forms might be suggested
for them, and a thousand ornaments with which they might be decorated."

"If the artists are so rich," replied Charlotte, "then tell me how it is that
they are never able to escape from little obelisks, dwarf pillars, and urns for
ashes? Instead of your thousand forms of which you boast, I have never
seen anything but a thousand repetitions."

"It is very generally so with us," returned the Architect, "but it is not
universal; and very likely the right taste and the proper application of it may
be a peculiar art. In this case especially we have this great difficulty, that the
monument must be something cheerful and yet commemorate a solemn
subject; while its matter is melancholy, it must not itself be melancholy. As
regards designs for monuments of all kinds, I have collected numbers of
them, and I will take some opportunity of showing them to you; but at all
times the fairest memorial of a man remains some likeness of himself. This
better than anything else, will give a notion of what he was; it is the best
text for many or for few notes, only it ought to be made when he is at his
best age, and that is generally neglected; no one thinks of preserving forms
while they are alive, and if it is done at all, it is done carelessly and
incompletely; and then comes death; a cast is taken swiftly of the face; this
mask is set upon a block of stone, and that is what is called a bust. How

seldom is the artist in a position to put any real life into such things as
these!"

"You have contrived," said Charlotte, "without perhaps knowing it or
wishing it, to lead the conversation altogether in my favor. The likeness of a
man is quite independent; everywhere that it stands, it stands for itself, and
we do not require it to mark the site of a particular grave. But I must
acknowledge to you to having a strange feeling; even to likenesses I have a
kind of disinclination. Whenever I see them they seem to be silently
reproaching me. They point to something far away from us—gone from us;
and they remind me how difficult it is to pay right honor to the present. If
we think how many people we have seen and known, and consider how
little we have been to them and how little they have been to us, it is no very
pleasant reflection. We have met a man of genius without having enjoyed
much with him—a learned man without having learnt from him—a traveler
without having been instructed,—a man to love without having shown him
any kindness.

"And, unhappily, this is not the case only with accidental meetings.
Societies and families behave in the same way toward their dearest
members, towns toward their worthiest citizens, people toward their most
admirable princes, nations toward their most distinguished men.

"I have heard it asked why we heard nothing but good spoken of the
dead, while of the living it is never without some exception. It should be
answered, because from the former we have nothing any more to fear, while
the latter may still, here or there, fall in our way. So unreal is our anxiety to
preserve the memory of others—generally no more than a mere selfish
amusement; and the real, holy, earnest feeling would be what should prompt
us to be more diligent and assiduous in our attentions toward those who still
are left to us."

CHAPTER II

Under the stimulus of this accident, and of the conversations which arose
out of it, they went the following day to look over the burying-place, for the
ornamenting of which and relieving it in some degree of its sombre look,
the Architect made many a happy proposal. His interest too had to extend
itself to the church as well; a building which had caught his attention from
the moment of his arrival.

It had been standing for many centuries, built in old German style, the
proportions good, the decorating elaborate and excellent; and one might
easily gather that the architect of the neighboring monastery had left the
stamp of his art and of his love on this smaller building also; it worked on
the beholder with a solemnity and a sweetness, although the change in its
internal arrangements for the Protestant service had taken from it something
of its repose and majesty.

The Architect found no great difficulty in prevailing on Charlotte to give
him a considerable sum of money to restore it externally and internally, in
the original spirit, and thus, as he thought, to bring it into harmony with the
resurrection-field which lay in front of it. He had himself much practical
skill, and a few laborers who were still busy at the lodge might easily be
kept together, until this pious work too should be completed.

The building itself, therefore, with all its environs, and whatever was
attached to it, was now carefully and thoroughly examined; and then
showed itself, to the greatest surprise and delight of the Architect, a little
side chapel, which nobody had thought of, beautifully and delicately
proportioned, and displaying still greater care and pains in its decoration. It
contained at the same time many remnants, carved and painted, of the
implements used in the old services, when the different festivals were
distinguished by a variety of pictures and ceremonies, and each was
celebrated in its own peculiar style.

It was impossible for him not at once to take this chapel into his plan; and
he determined to bestow especial pains on the restoring of this little spot, as
a memorial of old times and of their taste. He saw exactly how he would
like to have the vacant surfaces of the walls ornamented, and delighted
himself with the prospect, of exercising his talent for painting upon them;
but of this, at first, he made a secret to the rest of the party.

Before doing anything else, he fulfilled his promise of showing the ladies
the various imitations of, and designs from, old monuments, vases, and
other such things which he had made, and when they came to speak of the
simple barrow-sepulchres of the northern nations, he brought a collection of
weapons and implements which had been found in them. He had got them
exceedingly nicely and conveniently arranged in drawers and
compartments, laid on boards cut to fit them, and covered over with cloth;
so that these solemn old things, in the way he treated them, had a smart
dressy appearance, and it was like looking into the box of a trinket
merchant.

Having once begun to show his curiosities, and finding them prove
serviceable to entertain our friends in their loneliness, every evening he
would produce one or other of his treasures. They were most of them of

German origin—pieces of metal, old coins, seals, and such like. All these
things directed the imagination back upon old times; and when at last they
came to amuse themselves with the first specimens of printing, woodcuts,
and the earliest copper-plate engraving, and when the church, in the same
spirit, was growing out, every day, more and more in form and color like
the past, they had almost to ask themselves whether they really were living
in a modern time, whether it were not a dream, that manners, customs,
modes of life, and convictions were all really so changed.

After such preparation, a great portfolio, which at last he produced, had
the best possible effect. It contained indeed principally only outlines and
figures, but as these had been traced upon original pictures, they retained
perfectly their ancient character, and most captivating indeed this character
was to the spectators. All the figures breathed only the purest feeling; every
one, if not noble, at any rate was good; cheerful composure, ready
recognition of One above us, to whom all reverence is due; silent devotion,
in love and tranquil expectation, was expressed on every face, on every
gesture. The old bald-headed man, the curly-pated boy, the light-hearted
youth, the earnest man, the glorified saint, the angel hovering in the air, all
seemed happy in an innocent, satisfied, pious expectation. The commonest
object had a trait of celestial life; and every nature seemed adapted to the
service of God, and to be, in some way or other, employed upon it.

Toward such a region most of them gazed as toward a vanished golden
age, or on some lost paradise; only perhaps Ottilie had a chance of finding
herself among beings of her own nature. Who could offer any proposition
when the Architect asked to be allowed to paint the spaces between the
arches and the walls of the chapel in the style of these old pictures and
thereby leave his own distinct memorial at a place where life had gone so
pleasantly with him?

He spoke of it with some sadness, for he could see, in the state in which
things were, that his sojourn in such delightful society could not last
forever; indeed, that perhaps it would now soon be ended.

For the rest, these days were not rich in incidents; yet full of occasion for
serious entertainment. We therefore take the opportunity of communicating
something of the remarks which Ottilie noted down among her manuscripts,
to which we cannot find a fitter transition than through a simile which
suggested itself to us on contemplating her exquisite pages.

There is, we are told, a curious contrivance in the service of the English
marine. The ropes in use in the royal navy, from the largest to the smallest,
are so twisted that a red thread runs through them from end to end, which
cannot be extracted without undoing the whole; and by which the smallest
pieces may be recognized as belonging to the crown.

Just so is there drawn through Ottilie Is diary, a thread of attachment and
affection which connects it all together, and characterizes the whole. And
thus these remarks, these observations, these extracted sentences, and
whatever else it may contain, were, to the writer, of peculiar meaning. Even
the few separate pieces which we select and transcribe will sufficiently
explain our meaning.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"To rest hereafter at the side of those whom we love is the most
delightful thought which man can have when once he looks out beyond the
boundary of life. What a sweet expression is that—'He was gathered to his
fathers!'"

"Of the various memorials and tokens which bring nearer to us the distant
and the separated—none is so satisfactory as a picture. To sit and talk to a

beloved picture, even though it be unlike, has a charm in it, like the charm
which there sometimes is in quarrelling with a friend. We feel, in a strange
sweet way, that we are divided and yet cannot separate."

"We entertain ourselves often with a present person as with a picture. He
need not speak to us, he need not look at us, or take any notice of us; we
look at him, we feel the relation in which we stand to him; such relation can
even grow without his doing anything toward it, without his having any
feeling of it: he is to us exactly as a picture."

"One is never satisfied with a portrait of a person that one knows. I have
always felt for the portrait-painter on this account. One so seldom requires
of people what is impossible, and of them we do really require what is
impossible; they must gather up into their picture the relation of every body
to its subject, all their likings and all dislikings; they must not only paint a
man as they see him, but as every one else sees him. It does not surprise me
if such artists become by degrees stunted, indifferent, and of but one idea;
and indeed it would not matter what came of it, if it were not that in
consequence we have to go without the pictures of so many persons near
and dear to us."

"It is too true, the Architect's collection of weapons and old implements,
which were found with the bodies of their owners, covered in with great
hills of earth and rock, proves to us how useless is man's so great anxiety to
preserve his personality after he is dead; and so inconsistent people are, the
Architect confesses to have himself opened these barrows of his forefathers,
and yet goes on occupying himself with memorials for posterity."

"But after all why should we take it so much to heart? Is all that we do,
done for eternity? Do we not put on our dress in the morning, to throw it off
again at night? Do we not go abroad to return home again? And why should

we not wish to rest by the side of our friends, though it were but for a
century?"

"When we see the many gravestones which have fallen in, which have
been defaced by the footsteps of the congregation, which lie buried under
the ruins of the churches, that have themselves crumbled together over
them, we may fancy the life after death to be as a second life, into which a
man enters in the figure, or the picture, or the inscription, and lives longer
there than when he was really alive. But this figure also, this second
existence, dies out too, sooner or later. Time will not allow himself to be
cheated of his rights with the monuments of men or with themselves."

It causes us so agreeable a sensation to occupy ourselves with what we
can only half do, that no person ought to find fault with the dilettante, when
he is spending his time over an art which he can never learn; nor blame the
artist if he chooses to pass out over the border of his own art, and amuse
himself in some neighboring field. With such complacency of feeling we
regard the preparation of the Architect for painting the chapel. The colors
were got ready, the measurements taken, the cartoons designed. He had
made no attempt at originality, but kept close to his outlines; his only care
was to make a proper distribution of the sitting and floating figures, so as
tastefully to ornament his space with them.

The scaffoldings were erected. The work went forward; and as soon as
anything had been done on which the eye could rest, he could have no
objection to Charlotte and Ottilie coming to see how he was getting on.

The life-like faces of the angels, their robes waving against the blue sky-
ground, delighted the eye, while their still and holy air calmed and
composed the spirit, and produced the most delicate effect.

The ladies ascended the scaffolding to him, and Ottilie had scarcely
observed how easily and regularly the work was being done when the
power which had been fostered in her by her early education at once
appeared to develop. She took a brush, and with a few words of direction,
painted a richly folding robe, with as much delicacy as skill.

Charlotte, who was always glad when Ottilie would occupy or amuse
herself with anything, left them both in the chapel, and went to follow the
train of her own thoughts, and work her way for herself through her cares
and anxieties which she was unable to communicate to a creature.

When ordinary men allow themselves to be worked up by common
every-day difficulties into fever-fits of passion, we can give them nothing
but a compassionate smile. But we look with a kind of awe on a spirit in
which the seed of a great destiny has been sown, which must abide the
unfolding of the germ, and neither dare nor can do anything to precipitate
either the good or the ill, either the happiness or the misery, which is to
arise out of it.

Edward had sent an answer by Charlotte's messenger, who had come to
him in his solitude. It was written with kindness and interest, but it was
rather composed and serious than warm and affectionate. He had vanished
almost immediately after, and Charlotte could learn no news about him; till
at last she accidentally found his name in the newspaper, where he was
mentioned with honor among those who had most distinguished themselves
in a late important engagement. She now understood the method which he
had taken; she perceived that he had escaped from great danger; only she
was convinced at the same time that he would seek out greater; and it was
all too clear to her that in every sense he would hardly be withheld from any
extremity.

She had to bear about this perpetual anxiety in her thoughts, and turn
which way she would, there was no light in which she could look at it that
would give her comfort.

Ottilie, never dreaming of anything of this, had taken to the work in the
chapel with the greatest interest, and she had easily obtained Charlotte's
permission to go on with it regularly. So now all went swiftly forward, and
the azure heaven was soon peopled with worthy inhabitants. By continual
practice both Ottilie and the Architect had gained more freedom with the
last figures; they became perceptibly better. The faces, too, which had been
all left to the Architect to paint, showed by degrees a very singular
peculiarly. They began all of them to resemble Ottilie. The neighborhood of
the beautiful girl had made so strong an impression on the soul of the young
man, who had no variety of faces preconceived in his mind, that by degrees,
on the way from the eye to the hand, nothing was lost, and both worked in
exact harmony together. Enough; one of the last faces succeeded perfectly;
so that it seemed as if Ottilie herself was looking down out of the spaces of
the sky.

They had finished with the arching of the ceiling. The walls they
proposed to leave plain, and only to cover them over with a bright brown
color. The delicate pillars and the quaintly molded ornaments were to be
distinguished from them by a dark shade. But as in such things one thing
ever leads on to another, they determined at least on having festoons of
flowers and fruit, which should, as it were, unite heaven and earth. Here
Ottilie was in her element. The gardens provided the most perfect patterns;
and although the wreaths were as rich as they could make them, it was all
finished sooner than they had supposed possible.

It was still looking rough and disorderly. The scaffolding poles had been
run together, the planks thrown one on the top of the other; the uneven

pavement was yet more disfigured by the parti-colored stains of the paint
which had been spilt over it.

The Architect begged that the ladies would give him a week to himself,
and during that time would not enter the chapel; at the end of it, one fine
evening, he came to them, and begged them both to go and see it. He did
not wish to accompany them, he said, and at once took his leave.

"Whatever surprise he may have designed for us," said Charlotte, as soon
as he was gone, "I cannot myself just now go down there. You can go by
yourself, and tell me all about it. No doubt he has been doing something
which we shall like. I will enjoy it first in your description, and afterwards
it will be the more charming in the reality."

Ottilie, who knew well that in many cases Charlotte took care to avoid
everything which could produce emotion, and particularly disliked to be
surprised, set off down the walk by herself and looked round involuntarily
for the Architect, who, however, was nowhere to be seen and must have
concealed himself somewhere. She walked into the church, which she
found open. This had been finished before; it had been cleaned up, and
service had been performed in it. She went on to the chapel door; its heavy
mass, all overlaid with iron, yielded easily to her touch, and she found an
unexpected sight in a familiar spot.

A solemn, beautiful light streamed in through the one tall window. It was
filled with stained glass, gracefully put together. The entire chapel had thus
received a strange tone, and a peculiar genius was thrown over it. The
beauty of the vaulted ceiling and the walls was set off by the elegance of the
pavement, which was composed of peculiarly shaped tiles, fastened
together with gypsum, and forming exquisite patterns as they lay. This and
the colored glass for the windows the Architect had prepared without their
knowledge, and a short time was sufficient to have it put in its place.

Seats had been provided as well. Among the relics of the old church
some finely carved chancel chairs had been discovered, which now were
standing about at convenient places along the walls.

The parts which she knew so well now meeting her as an unfamiliar
whole, delighted Ottilie. She stood still, walked up and down, looked and
looked again; at last she seated herself in one of the chairs, and it seemed,
as she gazed up and down, as if she was, and yet was not—as if she felt and
did not feel—as if all this would vanish from before her, and she would
vanish from herself; and it was only when the sun left the window, on
which before it had been shining full, that she awoke to possession of
herself and hastened back to the castle.

She did not hide from herself the strange epoch at which this surprise had
occurred to her. It was the evening of Edward's birthday. Very differently
she had hoped to keep it. How was not every thing to be dressed out for this
festival and now all the splendor of the autumn flowers remained
ungathered! Those sunflowers still turned their faces to the sky; those asters
still looked out with quiet, modest eye; and whatever of them all had been
wound into wreaths had served as patterns for the decorating a spot which,
if it was not to remain a mere artist's fancy, was only adapted as a general
mausoleum.

And then she had to remember the impetuous eagerness with which
Edward had kept her birthday-feast. She. thought of the newly erected
lodge, under the roof of which they had promised themselves so much
enjoyment. The fireworks flashed and hissed again before her eyes and ears;
the more lonely she was, the more keenly her imagination brought it all
before her. But she felt herself only the more alone. She no longer leant
upon his arm, and she had no hope ever any more to rest herself upon it.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"I have been struck with an observation of the young architect.

"In the case of the creative artist, as in that of the artisan, it is clear that
man is least permitted to appropriate to himself what is most entirely his
own. His works forsake him as the birds forsake the nest in which they were
hatched.

"The fate of the Architect is the strangest of all in this way. How often he
expends his whole soul, his whole heart and passion, to produce buildings
into which he himself may never enter. The halls of kings owe their
magnificence to him; but he has no enjoyment of them in their splendor. In
the temple he draws a partition line between himself and the Holy of
Holies; he may never more set his foot upon the steps which he has laid
down for the heart-thrilling ceremonial, as the goldsmith may only adore
from far off the monstrance whose enamel and whose jewels he has himself
set together. The builder surrenders to the rich man, with the key of his
palace, all pleasure and all right there, and never shares with him in the
enjoyment of it. And must not art in this way, step by step, draw off from
the artist, when the work, like a child who is provided for, has no more to
fall back upon its father? And what a power there must be in art itself for its
own self-advancing, when it has been obliged to shape itself almost solely
out of what was open to all, only out of what was the property of every one,
and therefore also of the artist!"

"There is a conception among old nations which is awful, and may
almost seem terrible. They pictured their forefathers to themselves sitting
round on thrones, in enormous caverns, in silent converse; when a new
comer entered, if he were worthy enough, they rose up, and inclined their
heads to welcome him. Yesterday, as I was sitting in the chapel, and other
carved chairs stood round like that in which I was, the thought of this came
over me with a soft, pleasant feeling. Why cannot you stay sitting here? I

said to myself; stay here sitting meditating with yourself long, long, long,
till at last your friends come, and you rise up to them, and with a gentle
inclination direct them to their places. The colored window panes convert
the day into a solemn twilight; and some one should set up for us an ever-
burning lamp, that the night might not be utter darkness."

"We may imagine ourselves in what situation we please, we always
conceive ourselves as seeing. I believe men only dream that they may not
cease to see. Some day, perhaps, the inner light will come out from within
us, and we shall not any more require another.

"The year dies away, the wind sweeps over the stubble, and there is
nothing left to stir under its touch. But the red berries on yonder tall tree
seem as if they would still remind us of brighter things; and the stroke of
the thrasher's flail awakes the thought how much of nourishment and life lie
buried in the sickled ear."

CHAPTER IV

How strangely, after all this, with the sense so vividly impressed on her of
mutability and perishableness, must Ottilie have been affected by the news
which could not any longer be kept concealed from her, that Edward had
exposed himself to the uncertain chances of war! Unhappily, none of the
observations which she had occasion to make upon it escaped her. But it is
well for us that man can only endure a certain degree of unhappiness; what
is beyond that either annihilates him, or passes by him, and leaves him
apathetic. There are situations in which hope and fear run together, in which
they mutually destroy one another, and lose themselves in a dull
indifference. If it were not so, how could we bear to know of those who are
most dear to us being in hourly peril, and yet go on as usual with our
ordinary everyday life?

It was therefore as if some good genius was caring for Ottilie, that, all at
once, this stillness, in which she seemed to be sinking from loneliness and
want of occupation, was suddenly invaded by a wild army, which, while it
gave her externally abundance of employment, and so took her out of
herself, at the same time awoke in her the consciousness of her own power.

Charlotte's daughter, Luciana, had scarcely left the school and gone out
into the great world; scarcely had she found herself at her aunt's house in
the midst of a large society, than her anxiety to please produced its effect in
really pleasing; and a young, very wealthy man, soon experienced a

passionate desire to make her his own. His large property gave him a right
to have the best of everything for his use, and nothing seemed to be wanting
to him except a perfect wife, for whom, as for the rest of his good fortune,
he should be the envy of the world.

This incident in her family had been for some time occupying Charlotte.
It had engaged all her attention, and taken up her whole correspondence,
except so far as this was directed to the obtaining news of Edward; so that
latterly Ottilie had been left more than was usual to herself. She knew,
indeed, of an intended visit from Luciana. She had been making various
changes and arrangements in the house in preparation for it; but she had no
notion that it was so near. Letters, she supposed, would first have to pass,
settling the time, and unsettling it; and at last a final fixing: when the storm
broke suddenly over the castle and over herself.

Up drove, first, lady's maids and men-servants, their carriage loaded with
trunks and boxes. The household was already swelled to double or to treble
its size, and then appeared the visitors themselves. There was the great aunt,
with Luciana and some of her friends; and then the bridegroom with some
of his friends. The entrance-hall was full of things—bags, portmanteaus,
and leather articles of every sort. The boxes had to be got out of their
covers, and that was infinite trouble; and of luggage and of rummage there
was no end. At intervals, moreover, there were violent showers, giving rise
to much inconvenience. Ottilie encountered all this confusion with the
easiest equanimity, and her happy talent showed in its fairest light. In a very
little time she had brought things to order, and disposed of them. Every one
found his room—every one hand his things exactly as they wished, and all
thought themselves well attended to, because they were not prevented from
attending on themselves.

The journey had been long and fatiguing, and they would all have been
glad of a little rest after it. The bridegroom would have liked to pay his
respects to his mother-in-law, express his pleasure, his gratitude, and so on.
But Luciana could not rest. She had now arrived at the happiness of being
able to mount a horse. The bridegroom had beautiful horses, and mount
they must on the spot. Clouds and wind, rain and storm, they were nothing
to Luciana, and now it was as if they only lived to get wet through, and to
dry themselves again. If she took a fancy to go out walking, she never
thought what sort of dress she had on, or what her shoes were like; she must
go and see the grounds of which she had heard so much; what could not be
done on horseback, she ran through on foot. In a little while she had seen
everything, and given her opinion about everything; and with such rapidity
of character it was not easy to contradict or oppose her. The whole
household had much to suffer, but most particularly the lady's maids, who
were at work from morning to night, washing, and ironing, and stitching.

As soon as she had exhausted the house and the park, she thought it was
her duty to pay visits all around the neighborhood. Although they rode and
drove fast, "all around the neighborhood" was a goodly distance. The castle
was flooded with return visits, and that they might not miss one another, it
soon came to days being fixed for them.

Charlotte, in the meantime, with her aunt, and the man of business of the
bridegroom, were occupied in determining about the settlements, and it was
left to Ottilie, with those under her, to take care that all this crowd of people
were properly provided for. Gamekeepers and gardeners, fishermen and
shopdealers, were set in motion, Luciana always showing herself like the
blazing nucleus of a comet with its long tail trailing behind it. The ordinary
amusements of the parties soon became too insipid for her taste. Hardly
would she leave the old people in peace at the card-table. Whoever could by
any means be set moving (and who could resist the charm of being pressed

by her into service?) must up, if not to dance, then to play at forfeits, or
some other game, where they were to be victimized and tormented.
Notwithstanding all that, however, and although afterward the redemption
of the forfeits had to be settled with herself, yet of those who played with
her, never any one, especially never any man, let him be of what sort he
would, went quite empty-handed away. Indeed, some old people of rank
who were there she succeeded in completely winning over to herself, by
having contrived to find out their birthdays or christening days, and
marking them with some particular celebration. In all this she showed a
skill not a little remarkable. Every one saw himself favored, and each
considered himself to be the one most favored, a weakness of which the
oldest person of the party was the most notably guilty.

It seemed to be a sort of pride with her that men who had anything
remarkable about them—rank, character, or fame—she must and would
gain for herself. Gravity and seriousness she made give way to her, and,
wild, strange creature as she was, she found favor even with discretion
itself. Not that the young were at all cut short in consequence. Everybody
had his share, his day, his hour, in which she contrived to charm and to
enchain him. It was therefore natural enough that before long she should
have had the Architect in her eye, looking out so unconsciously as he did
from under his long black hair, and standing so calm and quiet in the
background. To all her questions she received short, sensible answers; but
he did not seem inclined to allow himself to be carried away further, and at
last, half provoked, half in malice, she resolved that she would make him
the hero of a day, and so gain him for her court.

It was not for nothing that she had brought that quantity of luggage with
her. Much, indeed, had followed her afterward. She had provided herself
with an endless variety of dresses. When it took her fancy she would change
her dress three or four times a day, usually wearing something of an

ordinary kind, but making her appearance suddenly at intervals in a
thorough masquerade dress, as a peasant girl or a fish-maiden, as a fairy or
a flower-girl; and this would go on from morning till night. Sometimes she
would even disguise herself as an old woman, that her young face might
peep out the fresher from under the cap; and so utterly in this way did she
confuse and mix together the actual and the fantastic, that people thought
they were living with a sort of drawing-room witch.

But the principal use which she had for these disguises were pantomimic
tableaux and dances, in which she was skilful in expressing a variety of
character. A cavalier in her suite had taught himself to accompany her
action on the piano with the little music which was required; they needed
only to exchange a few words and they at once understood each other.

One day, in a pause of a brilliant ball, they were called upon suddenly to
extemporize (it was on a private hint from themselves) one of these
exhibitions. Luciana seemed embarrassed, taken by surprise, and contrary
to her custom let herself be asked more than once. She could not decide
upon her character, desired the party to choose, and asked, like an
improvisatore, for a subject. At last her piano-playing companion, with
whom it had been all previously arranged, sat down at the instrument, and
began to play a mourning march, calling on her to give them the Artemisia
which she had been studying so admirably. She consented; and after a short
absence reappeared, to the sad tender music of the dead march, in the form
of the royal widow, with measured step, carrying an urn of ashes before her.
A large black tablet was borne in after her, and a carefully cut piece of chalk
in a gold pencil case.

One of her adorers and adjutants, into whose ear she whispered
something, went directly to call the Architect, to desire him, and, if he
would not come, to drag him up, as master-builder, to draw the grave for the

mausoleum, and to tell him at the same time that he was not to play the
statist, but enter earnestly into his part as one of the performers.

Embarrassed as the Architect outwardly appeared (for in his black, close-
fitting, modern civilian's dress, he formed a wonderful contrast with the
gauze crape fringes, tinsel tassels, and crown), he very soon composed
himself internally, and the scene became all the more strange. With the
greatest gravity he placed himself in front of the tablet, which was
supported by a couple of pages, and drew carefully an elaborate tomb,
which indeed would have suited better a Lombard than a Carian prince; but
it was in such beautiful proportions, so solemn in its parts, so full of genius
in its decoration, that the spectators watched it growing with delight, and
wondered at it when it was finished.

All this time he had not once turned toward the queen, but had given his
whole attention to what he was doing. At last he inclined his head before
her, and signified that he believed he had now fulfilled her commands. She
held the urn out to him, expressing her desire to see it represented on the
top of the monument. He complied, although unwillingly, as it would not
suit the character of the rest of his design. Luciana was now at last released
from her impatience. Her intention had been by no means to get a scientific
drawing out of him. If he had only made a few strokes, sketched out
something which should have looked like a monument, and devoted the rest
of his time to her, it would have been far more what she had wished, and
would have pleased her a great deal better. His manner of proceeding had
thrown her into the greatest embarrassment. For although in her sorrow, in
her directions, in her gestures, in her approbation of the work as it slowly
rose before her, she had tried to manage some sort of change of expression,
and although she had hung about close to him, only to place herself into
some sort of relation to him, yet he had kept himself throughout too stiff, so
that too often she had been driven to take refuge with her urn; she had to

press it to her heart and look up to heaven, and at last, a situation of that
kind having a necessary tendency to intensify, she made herself more like a
widow of Ephesus than a Queen of Caria. The representation had to
lengthen itself out and became tedious. The pianoforte player, who had
usually patience enough, did not know into what tune he could escape. He
thanked God when he saw the urn standing on the pyramid, and fell
involuntarily as the queen was going to express her gratitude, into a merry
air; by which the whole thing lost its character, the company, however,
being thoroughly cheered up by it, who forthwith divided, some going up to
express their delight and admiration of the lady for her excellent
performance, and some praising the Architect for his most artistlike and
beautiful drawing.

[Illustration: LUCIANA POSING AS QUEEN ARTEMISIA P.
Grotjohann]

The bridegroom especially paid marked attention to the Architect. "I am
vexed," he said, "that the drawing should be so perishable; you will permit
me, however, to have it taken to my room, where I should much like to talk
to you about it."

"If it would give you any pleasure," said the Architect, "I can lay before
you a number of highly finished designs for buildings and monuments of
this kind, of which this is but a mere hasty sketch."

Ottilie was standing at no great distance, and went up to them. "Do not
forget," she said to the Architect, "to take an opportunity of letting the
Baron see your collection. He is a friend of art and of antiquity. I should
like you to become better acquainted."

Luciana was passing at the moment. "What are they speaking of?" she
asked.

"Of a collection of works of art," replied the Baron, "which this
gentleman possesses, and which he is good enough to say that he will show
us."

"Oh, let him bring them immediately," cried Luciana. "You will bring
them, will you not?" she added, in a soft and sweet tone, taking both his
hands in hers.

"The present is scarcely a fitting time," the Architect answered.

"What!" Luciana cried, in a tone of authority; "you will not obey the
command of your queen!" and then she begged him again with some piece
of absurdity.

"Do not be obstinate," said Ottilie, in a scarcely audible voice.

The Architect left them with a bow, which said neither yes nor no.

He was hardly gone, when Luciana was flying up and down the saloon
with a greyhound. "Alas!" she exclaimed, as she ran accidentally against
her mother, "am I not an unfortunate creature? I have not brought my
monkey with me. They told me I had better not; but I am sure it was
nothing but the laziness of my people, and it is such a delight to me. But I
will have it brought after me; somebody shall go and fetch it. If I could only
see a picture of the dear creature, it would be a comfort to me; I certainly
will have his picture taken, and it shall never be out of my sight."

"Perhaps I can comfort you," replied Charlotte. "There is a whole volume
full of the most wonderful ape faces in the library, which you can have
fetched if you like."

Luciana shrieked for joy. The great folio was produced instantly. The
sight of these hideous creatures, so like to men, and with the resemblance

even more caricatured by the artist, gave Luciana the greatest delight. Her
amusement with each of the animals, was to find some one of her
acquaintance whom it resembled. "Is that not like my uncle?" she
remorselessly exclaimed; "and here, look, here is my milliner M., and here
is Parson S., and here the image of that creature—bodily! After all, these
monkeys are the real incroyables, and it is inconceivable why they are not
admitted into the best society."

It was in the best society that she said this, and yet no one took it ill of
her. People had become accustomed to allow her so many liberties in her
prettinesses, that at last they came to allow them in what was unpretty.

During this time, Ottilie was talking to the bridegroom; she was looking
anxiously for the return of the Architect, whose serious and tasteful
collection was to deliver the party from the apes; and in the expectation of
it, she had made it the subject of her conversation with the Baron, and
directed his attention on various things which he was to see. But the
Architect stayed away, and when at last he made his appearance, he lost
himself in the crowd, without having brought anything with him, and
without seeming as if he had been asked for anything.

For a moment Ottilie became—what shall we call it?—annoyed, put out,
perplexed. She had been saying so much about him—she had promised the
bridegroom an hour of enjoyment after his own heart; and with all the depth
of his love for Luciana, he was evidently suffering from her present
behavior.

The monkeys had to give place to a collation. Round games followed,
and then more dancing; at last, a general uneasy vacancy, with fruitless
attempts at resuscitating exhausted amusements, which lasted this time, as
indeed they usually did, far beyond midnight. It had already become a habit

with Luciana to be never able to get out of bed in the morning or into it at
night.

About this time, the incidents noticed in Ottilie's diary become more rare,
while we find a larger number of maxims and sentences drawn from life
and relating to life. It is not conceivable that the larger proportion of these
could have arisen from her own reflection, and most likely some one had
shown her varieties of them, and she had written out what took her fancy.
Many, however, with an internal bearing, can be easily recognized by the
red thread.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"We like to look into the future, because the undetermined in it, which
may be affected this or that way, we feel as if we could guide by our silent
wishes in our own favor."

"We seldom find ourselves in a large party without thinking; the accident
which brings so many here together, should bring our friends to us as well."

"Let us live in as small a circle as we will, we are either debtors or
creditors before we have had time to look round."

"If we meet a person who is under an obligation to us, we remember it
immediately. But how often may we meet people to whom we are,
ourselves, under obligation, without its even occurring to us!"

"It is nature to communicate one's-self; it is culture to receive what is
communicated as it is given."

"No one would talk much in society, if he only knew how often he
misunderstands others."

"One alters so much what one has heard from others in repeating it, only
because one has not understood it."

"Whoever indulges long in monologue in the presence of others, without
flattering his listeners, provokes ill-will."

"Every word a man utters provokes the opposite opinion."

"Argument and flattery are but poor elements out of which to form a
conversation."

"The pleasantest society is when the members of it have an easy and
natural respect for one another."

"There is nothing in which people more betray their character than in
what they find to laugh at."

"The ridiculous arises out of a moral contrast, in which two things are
brought together before the mind in an innocent way."

"The foolish man often laughs where there is nothing to laugh at.
Whatever touches him, his inner nature comes to the surface."

"The man of understanding finds almost everything ridiculous; the man
of thought scarcely anything."

"Some one found fault with an elderly man for continuing to pay
attention to young ladies. 'It is the only means,' he replied, 'of keeping
one's-self young, and everybody likes to do that.'"

"People will allow their faults to be shown them; they will let themselves
be punished for them; they will patiently endure many things because of
them; they only become impatient when they have to lay them aside."

"Certain defects are necessary for the existence of individuality. We
should not be pleased, if old friends were to lay aside certain peculiarities."

"There is a saying, 'He will die soon,' when a man acts unlike himself."

"What kind of defects may we bear with and even cultivate in ourselves?
Such as rather give pleasure to others than injure them."

"The passions are defects or excellencies only in excess."

"Our passions are true phoenixes: as the old burn out, the new straight
rise up out of the ashes."

"Violent passions are incurable diseases; the means which will cure them
are what first make them thoroughly dangerous."

"Passion is both raised and softened by confession. In nothing, perhaps,
were the middle way more desirable than in knowing what to say and what
not to say to those we love."

CHAPTER V

So swept on Luciana in the social whirlpool, driving the rush of life along
before her. Her court multiplied daily, partly because her impetuosity
roused and attracted so many, partly because she knew how to attach the
rest to her by kindness and attention. Generous she was in the highest
degree; her aunt's affection for her, and her bridegroom's love, had heaped
her with beautiful and costly presents, but she seemed as if nothing which
she had was her own, and as if she did not know the value of the things
which had streamed in upon her. One day she saw a young lady looking
rather poorly dressed by the side of the rest of the party, and she did not
hesitate a moment to take off a rich shawl which she was wearing and hang
it over her—doing it, at the same time, in such a humorous, graceful way
that no one could refuse such a present so given. One of her courtiers
always carried about a purse, with orders, whatever place they passed
through, to inquire there for the most aged and most helpless persons, and
give them relief, at least for the moment. In this way she gained for herself
all round the country a reputation for charitableness which caused her not a
little inconvenience, attracting about her far too many troublesome
sufferers.

Nothing, however, so much added to her popularity as her steady and
consistent kindness toward an unhappy young man, who shrank from
society because, while otherwise handsome and well-formed, he had lost

his right hand, although with high honor, in action. This mutilation weighed
so heavily upon his spirits, it was so annoying to him, that every new
acquaintance he made had to be told the story of his misfortune, that he
chose rather to shut himself up altogether, devoting himself to reading and
other studious pursuits, and once for all would have nothing more to do
with society.

She heard of the state of this young man. At once she contrived to prevail
upon him to come to her, first to small parties, then to greater, and then out
into the world with her. She showed more attention to him than to any other
person; particularly she endeavored, by the services which she pressed upon
him, to make him sensible of what he had lost in laboring herself to supply
it. At dinner, she would make him sit next to her; she cut up his food for
him, that he might have to use only his fork. If people older or of higher
rank prevented her from being close to him, she would stretch her attention
across the entire table, and the servants were hurried off to make up to him
what distance threatened to deprive him of. At last she encouraged him to
write with his left hand. All his attempts he was to address to her and thus,
whether far or near, she always kept herself in correspondence with him.
The young man did not know what had happened to him, and from that
moment a new life opened out before him.

One may perhaps suppose that such behavior must have caused some
uneasiness to her bridegroom. But, in fact, it was quite the reverse. He
admired her exceedingly for her exertions, and he had the more reason for
feeling entirely satisfied about her, as she had certain features in her
character almost in excess, which kept anything in the slightest degree
dangerous utterly at a distance. She would run about with anybody, just as
she fancied; no one was free from danger of a push or a pull, or of being
made the object of some sort of freak. But no person ever ventured to do the
same to her; no person dared to touch her, or return, in the remotest degree,

any liberty which she had taken herself. She kept every one within the
strictest barriers of propriety in their behavior to herself, while she, in her
own behavior, was every moment overleaping them.

On the whole, one might have supposed it had been a maxim with her to
expose herself indifferently to praise or blame, to regard or to dislike. If in
many ways she took pains to gain people, she commonly herself spoiled all
the good she had done, by an ill tongue, which spared no one. Not a visit
was ever paid in the neighborhood, not a single piece of hospitality was
ever shown to herself and her party among the surrounding castles or
mansions, but what, on her return, her excessive recklessness let it appear
that all men and all human things she was only inclined to see on the
ridiculous side.

There were three brothers who, purely out of compliment to one another,
kept up a good-natured and urbane controversy as to which should marry
first, had been overtaken by old age before they had got the question
settled; here was a little young wife with a great old husband; there, on the
other hand, was a dapper little man and an unwieldy giantess. In one house,
every step one took one stumbled over a child; another, however many
people were crammed into it, never would seem full, because there were no
children there at all. Old husbands (supposing the estate was not entailed)
should get themselves buried as quickly as possible, that such a thing as a
laugh might be heard again in the house. Young married people should
travel: housekeeping did not sit well upon them. And as she treated the
persons, so she treated what belonged to them; their houses, their furniture,
their dinner-services—everything. The ornaments of the walls of the rooms
most particularly provoked her saucy remarks. From the oldest tapestry to
the most modern printed paper; from the noblest family pictures to the most
frivolous new copper-plate: one as well as the other had to suffer—one as
well as the other had to be pulled in pieces by her satirical tongue, so that,

indeed, one had to wonder how, for twenty miles round, anything continued
to exist.

It was not, perhaps, exactly malice which produced all this
destructiveness; wilfulness and selfishness were what ordinarily set her off
upon it: but a genuine bitterness grew up in her feelings toward Ottilie.

She looked down with disdain on the calm, uninterrupted activity of the
sweet girl, which every one had observed and admired; and when
something was said of the care which Ottilie took of the garden and of the
hot-houses, she not only spoke scornfully of it, in affecting to be surprised,
if it were so, at there being neither flowers nor fruit to be seen, not caring to
consider that they were living in the depth of winter, but every faintest scrap
of green, every leaf, every bud which showed, she chose to have picked
every day and squandered on ornamenting the rooms and tables, and Ottilie
and the gardener were not a little distressed to see their hopes for the next
year, and perhaps for a longer time, destroyed in this wanton recklessness.

As little would she be content to leave Ottilie to her quiet work at home,
in which she could live with so much comfort. Ottilie must go with them on
their pleasure-parties and sledging-parties; she must be at the balls which
were being got up all about the neighborhood. She was not to mind the
snow, or the cold, or the night-air, or the storm; other people did not die of
such things, and why should she? The delicate girl suffered not a little from
it all, but Luciana gained nothing. For although Ottilie went about very
simply dressed, she was always, at least so the men thought, the most
beautiful person present. A soft attractiveness gathered them all about her;
no matter whereabouts in the great rooms she was, first or last, it was
always the same. Even Luciana's bridegroom was constantly occupied with
her; the more so, indeed, because he desired her advice and assistance in a
matter with which he was just then engaged.

He had cultivated the acquaintance of the Architect. On seeing his
collection of works of art, he had taken occasion to talk much with him on
history and on other matters, and especially from seeing the chapel had
learnt to appreciate his talent. The Baron was young and wealthy. He was a
collector; he wished to build. His love for the arts was keen, his knowledge
small. In the Architect he thought that he had found the man he wanted; that
with his assistance there was more than one aim at which he could arrive at
once. He had spoken to his bride of what he wished. She praised him for it,
and was infinitely delighted with the proposal. But it was more, perhaps,
that she might carry off this young man from Ottilie (for whom she fancied
she saw in him a kind of inclination), than because she thought of applying
his talents to any purpose. He had shown himself, indeed, very ready to
help at any of her extemporized festivities, and had suggested various
resources for this thing and that. But she always thought she understood
better than he what should be done, and as her inventive genius was usually
somewhat common, her designs could be as well executed with the help of
a tolerably handy domestic as with that of the most finished artist. Further
than to an altar on which something was to be offered, or to a crowning,
whether of a living head or of one of plaster of paris, the force of her
imagination could not ascend, when a birthday, or other such occasion,
made her wish to pay some one an especial compliment.

Ottilie was able to give the Baron the most satisfactory answer to his
inquiries as to the relation of the Architect with their family. Charlotte had
already, as she was aware, been exerting herself to find some situation for
him; had it not been indeed for the arrival of the party, the young man
would have left them immediately on the completion of the chapel, the
winter having brought all building operations to a standstill; and it was,
therefore, most fortunate if a new patron could be found to assist him, and
to make use of his talents.

Ottilie's own personal position with the Architect was as pure and
unconscious as possible. His agreeable presence, and his industrious nature,
had charmed and entertained her, as the presence of an elder brother might.
Her feelings for him remained at the calm unimpassioned level of blood
relationship. For in her heart there was no room for more; it was filled to
overflowing with love for Edward; only God, who interpenetrates all things,
could share with him the possession of that heart.

Meanwhile the winter sank deeper; the weather grew wilder, the roads
more impracticable, and therefore it seemed all the pleasanter to spend the
waning days in agreeable society. With short intervals of ebb, the crowd
from time to time flooded up over the house. Officers found their way there
from distant garrison towns; the cultivated among them being a most
welcome addition, the ruder the inconvenience of every one. Of civilians
too there was no lack; and one day the Count and the Baroness quite
unexpectedly came driving up together.

Their presence gave the castle the air of a thorough court. The men of
rank and character formed a circle about the Baron, and the ladies yielded
precedence to the Baroness. The surprise at seeing both together, and in
such high spirits, was not allowed to be of long continuance. It came out
that the Count's wife was dead, and the new marriage was to take place as
soon as ever decency would allow it.

Well did Ottilie remember their first visit, and every word which was
then uttered about marriage and separation, binding and dividing, hope,
expectation, disappointment, renunciation. Here were these two persons, at
that time without prospect for the future, now standing before her, so near
their wished-for happiness, and an involuntary sigh escaped out of her
heart.

No sooner did Luciana hear that the Count was an amateur of music, than
at once she must get up something of a concert. She herself would sing and
accompany herself on the guitar. It was done. The instrument she did not
play without skill; her voice was agreeable: as for the words one understood
about as little of them as one commonly does when a German beauty sings
to the guitar. However, every one assured her that she had sung with
exquisite expression, and she found quite enough approbation to satisfy her.
A singular misfortune befell her, however, on this occasion. Among the
party there happened to be a poet, whom she hoped particularly to attach to
herself, wishing to induce him to write a song or two, and address them to
her. This evening, therefore, she produced scarcely anything except songs
of his composing. Like the rest of the party he was perfectly courteous to
her, but she had looked for more. She spoke to him several times, going as
near the subject as she dared, but nothing further could she get. At last,
unable to bear it any longer, she sent one of her train to him, to sound him
and find out whether he had not been delighted to hear his beautiful poems
so beautifully executed.

"My poems?" he replied, with amazement; "pray excuse me, my dear
sir," he added, "I heard nothing but the vowels, and not all of those;
however, I am in duty bound to express all gratitude for so amiable an
intention." The dandy said nothing and kept his secret; the other endeavored
to get himself out of the scrape by a few well-timed compliments. She did
not conceal her desire to have something of his which should be written for
herself.

If it would not have been too ill-natured, he might have handed her the
alphabet, to imagine for herself, out of that, such laudatory poem as would
please her, and set it to the first melody that came to hand; but she was not
to escape out of this business without mortification. A short time after, she
had to learn that the very same evening he had written, at the foot of one of

Ottilie's favorite melodies, a most lovely poem, which was something more
than complimentary.

Luciana, like all persons of her sort, who never can distinguish between
where they show to advantage and where to disadvantage, now determined
to try her fortune in reciting. Her memory was good, but, if the truth must
be told, her execution was spiritless, and she was vehement without being
passionate. She recited ballad stories, and whatever else is usually delivered
in declamation. At the same time she had contracted an unhappy habit of
accompanying what she delivered with gestures, by which, in a
disagreeable way, what is purely epic and lyric is more confused than
connected with the dramatic.

The Count, a keen-sighted man, soon saw through the party, their
inclinations, dispositions, wishes, and capabilities, and by some means or
other contrived to bring Luciana to a new kind of exhibition, which was
perfectly suited to her.

"I see here," he said, "a number of persons with fine figures, who would
surely be able to imitate pictorial emotions and postures. Suppose they were
to try, if the thing is new to them, to represent some real and well-known
picture. An imitation of this kind, if it requires some labor in arrangement,
has an inconceivably charming effect."

Luciana was quick enough in perceiving that here she was on her own
ground entirely. Her fine shape, her well-rounded form, the regularity and
yet expressiveness of her features, her light-brown braided hair, her long
neck—she ran them all over in her mind, and calculated on their pictorial
effects, and if she had only known that her beauty showed to more
advantage when she was still than when she was in motion, because in the
last case certain ungracefulness continually escaped her, she would have
entered even more eagerly than she did into this natural picture-making.

They looked out the engravings of celebrated pictures, and the first which
they chose was Van Dyk's Belisarius. A large well-proportioned man,
somewhat advanced in years, was to represent the seated, blind general. The
Architect was to be the affectionate soldier standing sorrowing before him,
there really being some resemblance between them. Luciana, half from
modesty, had chosen the part of the young woman in the background,
counting out some large alms into the palm of his hand, while an old
woman beside her is trying to prevent her, and representing that she is
giving too much. Another woman who is in the act of giving him
something, was not forgotten. Into this and other pictures they threw
themselves with all earnestness. The Count gave the Architect a few hints as
to the best style of arrangement, and he at once set up a kind of theatre, all
necessary pains being taken for the proper lighting of it. They were already
deep in the midst of their preparations, before they observed how large an
outlay what they were undertaking would require, and that in the country, in
the middle of winter, many things which they required it would be difficult
to procure; consequently, to prevent a stoppage, Luciana had nearly her
whole wardrobe cut in pieces, to supply the various costumes which the
original artist had arbitrarily selected.

The appointed evening came, and the exhibition was carried out in the
presence of a large assemblage, and to the universal satisfaction. They had
some good music to excite expectation, and the performance opened with
the Belisarius. The figures were so successful, the colors were so happily
distributed, and the lighting managed so skilfully, that they might really
have fancied themselves in another world, only that the presence of the real
instead of the apparent produced a kind of uncomfortable sensation.

The curtain fell, and was more than once raised again by general desire.
A musical interlude kept the assembly amused while preparation was going
forward, to surprise them with a picture of a higher stamp; it was the well-

known design of Poussin, Ahasuerus and Esther. This time Luciana had
done better for herself. As the fainting, sinking queen she had put out all her
charms, and for the attendant maidens who were supporting her, she had
cunningly selected pretty, well-shaped figures, not one among whom,
however, had the slightest pretension to be compared with herself. From
this picture, as from all the rest, Ottilie remained excluded. To sit on the
golden throne and represent the Zeus-like monarch, Luciana had picked out
the finest and handsomest man of the party, so that this picture was really of
inimitable perfection.

For a third they had taken the so-called "Father's Admonition" of
Terburg, and who does not know Wille's admirable engraving of this
picture? One foot thrown over the other, sits a noble knightly-looking
father; his daughter stands before him, to whose conscience he seems to be
addressing himself. She, a fine striking figure, in a folding drapery of white
satin, is only to be seen from behind, but her whole bearing appears to
signify that she is collecting herself. That the admonition is not too severe,
that she is not being utterly put to shame, is to be gathered from the air and
attitude of the father, while the mother seems as if she were trying to
conceal some slight embarrassment—she is looking into a glass of wine,
which she is on the point of drinking.

Here was an opportunity for Luciana to appear in her highest splendor.
Her back hair, the form of her head, neck, and shoulders, were beyond all
conception beautiful; and the waist, which in the modern antique of the
ordinary dresses of young ladies is hardly visible, showed to the greatest
advantage in all its graceful, slender elegance in the really old costume. The
Architect had contrived to dispose the rich folds of the white satin with the
most exquisite nature, and, without any question whatever, this living
imitation far exceeded the original picture, and produced universal delight.

The spectators could never be satisfied with demanding a repetition of
the performance, and the very natural wish to see the face and front of so
lovely a creature, when they had done looking at her from behind, at last
became so decided that a merry impatient young wit cried out aloud the
words one is accustomed to write at the bottom of a page, "Tournez, s'il
vous plait," which was echoed all round the room.

The performers, however, understood their advantage too well, and had
mastered too completely the idea of these works of art to yield to the most
general clamor. The daughter remained standing in her shame, without
favoring the spectators with the expression of her face. The father continued
to sit in his attitude of admonition, and the mother did not lift nose or eyes
out of the transparent glass, in which, although she seemed to be drinking,
the wine did not diminish.

We need not describe the number of smaller after-pieces for which had
been chosen Flemish public-house scenes and fair and market days.

The Count and the Baroness departed, promising to return in the first
happy weeks of their approaching union. And Charlotte now had hopes,
after having endured two weary months of it, of ridding herself of the rest
of the party at the same time. She was assured of her daughter's happiness,
as soon as the first tumult of youth and betrothal should have subsided in
her; for the bridegroom considered himself the most fortunate person in the
world. His income was large, his disposition moderate and rational, and
now he found himself further wonderfully favored in the happiness of
becoming the possessor of a young lady with whom all the world must be
charmed. He had so peculiar a way of referring everything to her, and only
to himself through her, that it gave him an unpleasant feeling when any
newly-arrived person did not devote himself heart and soul to her, and was
far from flattered if, as occasionally happened, particularly with elderly

men, he neglected her for a close intimacy with himself. Every thing was
settled about the Architect. On New Year's day he was to follow him and
spend the Carnival at his house in the city, where Luciana was promising
herself infinite happiness from a repetition of her charmingly successful
pictures, as well as from a hundred other things; all the more as her aunt
and her bridegroom seemed to make so light of the expense which was
required for her amusements.

And now they were to break up. But this could not be managed in an
ordinary way. They were one day making fun of Charlotte aloud, declaring
that they would soon have eaten out her winter stores, when the nobleman
who had represented Belisarius, being fortunately a man of some wealth,
carried away by Luciana's charms to which he had been so long devoting
himself, cried out unthinkingly, "Why not manage then in the Polish
fashion? You come now and eat up me, and then we will go on round the
circle." No sooner said than done. Luciana willed that it should be so. The
next day they all packed up and the swarm alighted on a new property.
There indeed they found room enough, but few conveniences and no
preparations to receive them. Out of this arose many contretemps, which
entirely enchanted Luciana; their life became ever wilder and wilder. Huge
hunting-parties were set on foot in the deep snow, attended with every sort
of disagreeableness; women were not allowed to excuse themselves any
more than men, and so they trooped on, hunting and riding, sledging and
shouting, from one place to another, till at last they approached the
residence, and there the news of the day and the scandals and what else
forms the amusement of people at courts and cities gave the imagination
another direction, and Luciana with her train of attendants (her aunt had
gone on some time before) swept at once into a new sphere of life.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"We accept every person in the world as that for which he gives himself
out, only he must give himself out for something. We can put up with the
unpleasant more easily than we can endure the insignificant.

"We venture upon anything in society except only what involves a
consequence.

"We never learn to know people when they come to us: we must go to
them to find out how things stand with them.

"I find it almost natural that we should see many faults in visitors, and
that directly they are gone we should judge them not in the most amiable
manner. For we have, so to say, a right to measure them by our own
standard. Even cautious, sensible men can scarcely keep themselves in such
cases from being sharp censors.

"When, on the contrary, we are staying at the houses of others, when we
have seen them in the midst of all their habits and environments among
those necessary conditions from which they cannot escape, when we have
seen how they affect those about them, and how they adapt themselves to
their circumstances, it is ignorance nay, worse, it is ill-will, to find
ridiculous what in more than one sense has a claim on our respect.

"That which we call politeness and good breeding effects what otherwise
can only be obtained by violence, or not even by that.

"Intercourse with women is the element of good manners.

"How can the character, the individuality, of a man co-exist with polish
of manner?

"The individuality can only be properly made prominent through good
manners. Every one likes what has something in it, only it not be a

disagreeable something.

"In life generally, and in society, no one has such high advantages as a
well-cultivated soldier.

"The rudest fighting people at least do not go out of their character, and
generally behind the roughness there is a certain latent good humor, so that
in difficulties it is possible to get on, even with them.

"No one is more intolerable than an underbred civilian. From him one
has a right to look for a delicacy, as he has no rough work to do.

"When we are living with people who have a delicate sense of propriety,
we are in misery on their account when anything unbecoming is committed.
So I always feel for and with Charlotte, when a person is tipping his chair.
She cannot endure it.

"No one would ever come into a mixed party with spectacles on his nose,
if he did but know that at once we women lose all pleasure in looking at
him or listening to what he has to say.

"Free-and-easiness, where there ought to be respect, is always ridiculous.
No one would put his hat down when he had scarcely paid the ordinary
compliments if he knew how comical it looks.

"There is no outward sign of courtesy that does not rest on a deep moral
foundation. The proper education would be that which communicated the
sign and the foundation of it at the same time.

"Behavior is a mirror in which every one displays his own image.

"There is a courtesy of the heart. It is akin to love. Out of it arises the
purest courtesy in the outward behavior.

"A freely offered homage is the most beautiful of all relations. And how
were that possible without love?

"We are never further from our wishes than when we imagine that we
possess what we have desired.

"No one is more a slave than the man who thinks himself free while he is
not.

"A man has only to declare that he is free, and the next moment he feels
the conditions to which he is subject. Let him venture to declare that he is
under conditions, and then he will feel that he is free.

"Against great advantages in another, there are no means of defending
ourselves except love.

"There is something terrible in the sight of a highly-gifted man lying
under obligations to a fool.

"'No man is a hero to his valet,' the proverb says. But that is only because
it requires a hero to recognize a hero. The valet will probably know how to
value the valet-hero.

"Mediocrity has no greater consolation than in the thought that genius is
not immortal.

"The greatest men are connected with their own century always through
some weakness.

"One is apt to regard people as more dangerous than they are.

"Fools and modest people are alike innocuous. It is only your half-fools
and your half-wise who are really and truly dangerous.

"There is no better deliverance from the world than through art; and a
man can form no surer bond with it than through art.

"Alike in the moment of our highest fortune and our deepest necessity,
we require the artist.

"The business of art is with the difficult and the good.

"To see the difficult easily handled, gives us the feeling of the impossible.

"Difficulties increase the nearer we are to our end.

"Sowing is not so difficult as reaping."

CHAPTER VI

The very serious discomfort which this visit had caused to Charlotte was in
some way compensated to her through the fuller insight which it had
enabled her to gain into her daughter's character. In this, her knowledge of
the world was of no slight service to her. It was not the first time that so
singular a character had come across her, although she had never seen any
in which the unusual features were so largely developed; and she had had
experience enough to show her that such persons, after having felt the
discipline of life, after having gone through something of it, and been in
intercourse with older people, may come out at last really charming and
amiable; the selfishness may soften and eager restless activity find a
definite direction for itself. And therefore, as a mother, Charlotte was able
to endure the appearance of symptoms which for others might perhaps have
been unpleasing, from a sense that where strangers only desire to enjoy, or
at least not to have their taste offended, the business of parents is rather to
hope.

After her daughter's departure, however, she had to be pained in a
singular and unlooked-for manner, in finding that, not so much through
what there really was objectionable in her behavior, as through what was
good and praiseworthy in it, she had left an ill report of herself behind her.
Luciana seemed to have prescribed it as a rule to herself not only to be
merry with the merry, but miserable with the miserable; and in order to give

full swing to the spirit of contradiction in her, often to make the happy,
uncomfortable, and the sad, cheerful. In every family among whom she
came, she inquired after such members of it as were ill or infirm, and
unable to appear in society. She would go to see them in their rooms, enact
the physician, and insist on prescribing powerful doses for them out of her
own traveling medicine-chest, which she constantly took with her in her
carriage; her attempted cures, as may be supposed, either succeeding or
failing as chance happened to direct.

In this sort of benevolence she was thoroughly cruel, and would listen to
nothing that was said to her, because she was convinced that she was
managing admirably. One of these attempts of hers on the moral side failed
very disastrously, and this it was which gave Charlotte so much trouble,
inasmuch as it involved consequences and every one was talking about it.
She never had heard of the story till Luciana was gone; Ottilie, who had
made one of the party present at the time, had to give her a circumstantial
account of it.

One of several daughters of a family of rank had the misfortune to have
caused the death of one of her younger sisters; it had destroyed her peace of
mind, and she had never been properly herself since. She lived in her own
room, occupying herself and keeping quiet; and she could only bear to see
the members of her own family when they came one by one. If there were
several together, she suspected at once that they were making reflections
upon her, and upon her condition. To each of them singly she would speak
rationally enough, and talk freely for an hour at a time.

Luciana had heard of this, and had secretly determined with herself, as
soon as she got into the house, that she would forthwith work a miracle, and
restore the young lady to society. She conducted herself in the matter more
prudently than usual, managed to introduce herself alone to the poor sick-

souled girl, and, as far as people could understand, had wound her way into
her confidence through music. At last came her fatal mistake; wishing to
make a scene, and fancying that she had sufficiently prepared her for it, one
evening she suddenly introduced the beautiful pale creature into the midst
of the brilliant, glittering assembly; and perhaps, even then, the attempt
might not have so utterly failed, had not the crowd themselves, between
curiosity and apprehension, conducted themselves so unwisely, first
gathering about the invalid, and then shrinking from her again; and with
their whispers, and shaking their heads together, confusing and agitating
her. Her delicate sensibility could not endure it. With a dreadful shriek,
which expressed, as it seemed, a horror at some monster that was rushing
upon her, she fainted. The crowd fell back in terror on every side, and
Ottilie had been one of those who had carried back the sufferer utterly
insensible to her room.

Luciana meanwhile, just like herself, had been reading an angry lecture
to the rest of the party, without reflecting for a moment that she herself was
entirely to blame, and without letting herself be deterred by this and other
failures, from going on with her experimentalizing.

The state of the invalid herself had since that time become more and
more serious; indeed, the disorder had increased to such a degree that the
poor thing's parents were unable to keep her any longer at home, and had
been forced to confide her to the care of a public institution. Nothing
remained for Charlotte, except, by the delicacy of her own attention to the
family, in some degree to alleviate the pain which had been occasioned by
her daughter. On Ottilie, the thing made a deep impression. She felt the
more for the unhappy girl, as she was convinced, she did not attempt to
deny it to Charlotte, that by a careful treatment the disorder might have
been unquestionably removed.

So there came, too, as it often happens, that we dwell more on past
disagreeables than on past agreeables, a slight misunderstanding to be
spoken of, which had led Ottilie to a wrong judgment of the Architect, when
he did not choose to produce his collection that evening, although she had
so eagerly begged him to produce it. His practical refusal had remained,
ever since, hanging about her heart, she herself could not tell why. Her
feelings about the matter were undoubtedly just; what a young lady like
Ottilie could desire, a young man like the Architect ought not to have
refused. The latter, however, when she took occasion to give him a gentle
reproof for it, had a very valid excuse to offer for himself.

"If you knew," he said, "how roughly even cultivated people allow
themselves to handle the most valuable works of art, you would forgive me
for not producing mine among the crowd. No one will take the trouble to
hold a medal by the rim. They will finger the most beautiful impressions,
and the smoothest surfaces; they will take the rarest coins between the
thumb and forefinger, and rub them up and down, as if they were testing the
execution with the touch. Without remembering that a large sheet of paper
ought to be held in two hands, they will lay hold, with one, of an invaluable
proof-engraving of some drawing which cannot be replaced, like a
conceited politician laying hold of a newspaper, and passing judgment by
anticipation, as he is cutting the pages, on the occurrences of the world.
Nobody cares to recollect that if twenty people, one after the other, treat a
work of art in this way, the one-and-twentieth will not find much to see
there."

"Have not I often vexed you in this way?" asked Ottilie. "Have not I,
through my carelessness, many times injured your treasures?"

"Never once," answered the Architect, "never. For you it would be
impossible. In you the right thing is innate."

"In any case," replied Ottilie, "it would not be a bad plan, if in the next
edition of the book of good manners, after the chapters which tell us how
we ought to eat and drink in company, a good circumstantial chapter were
inserted, telling how to behave among works of art and in museums."

"Undoubtedly," said the Architect; "and then curiosity-collectors and
amateurs would be better contented to show their valuable treasures to the
world."

Ottilie had long, long forgiven him; but as he seemed to have taken her
reproof sorely to heart, and assured her again and again that he would
gladly produce everything—that he was delighted to do anything for his
friends—she felt that she had wounded his feelings, and that she owed him
some compensation. It was not easy for her, therefore, to give an absolute
refusal to a request which he made her in the conclusion of this
conversation, although when she called her heart into counsel about it, she
did not see how she could allow herself to do what he wished.

The circumstances of the matter were these: Ottilie's exclusion from the
picture-exhibition by Luciana's jealousy had irritated him in the highest
degree; and at the same time he had observed with regret, that at this, the
most brilliant part of all the amusements at the castle, ill health had
prevented Charlotte from being more than rarely present; and now he did
not wish to go away without some additional proof of his gratitude, which,
for the honor of one and the entertainment of the other, should take the
thoughtful and attractive form of preparing a far more beautiful exhibition
than any of those which had preceded it. Perhaps, too, unknown to himself,
another secret motive was working on him. It was so hard for him to leave
the house, and to leave the family. It seemed impossible to him to go away
from Ottilie's eyes, under the calm, sweet, gentle glance of which the latter
part of the time he had been living almost entirely alone.

The Christmas holidays were approaching; and it became at once clear to
him that the very thing which he wanted was a representation with real
figures of one of those pictures of the scene in the stable—a sacred
exhibition such as at this holy season good Christians delight to offer to the
divine Mother and her Child, of the manner in which she, in her seeming
lowliness, was honored first by the shepherds and afterward by kings.

He had thoroughly brought before himself how such a picture should be
contrived. A fair, lovely child was found, and there would be no lack of
shepherds and shepherdesses. But without Ottilie the thing could not be
done. The young man had exalted her in his design to be the mother of God,
and if she refused, there was no question but the undertaking must fall to
the ground. Ottilie, half embarrassed at the proposal, referred him and his
request to Charlotte. The latter gladly gave her permission, and lent her
assistance in overcoming and overpersuading Ottilie's hesitation in
assuming so sacred a personality. The Architect worked day and night, that
by Christmas-eve everything might be ready.

Day and night, indeed, in the literal sense. At all times he was a man who
had but few necessities; and Ottilie's presence seemed to be to him in the
place of all delicacies. When he was working for her, it was as if he
required no sleep; when he was busy about her, as if he could do without
food. Accordingly, by the hour of the evening solemnity, all was completed.
He had found the means of collecting some well-toned wind instruments to
form an introduction, and produce the desired temper of thought and
feeling. But when the curtain rose, Charlotte was taken completely by
surprise. The picture which presented itself to her had been repeated so
often in the world, that one could scarcely have expected any new
impression to be produced. But here, the reality as representing the picture
had its especial advantages. The whole space was the color rather of night
than of twilight, and there was nothing even of the details of the scene

which was obscure. The inimitable idea that all the light should proceed
from the child, the artist had contrived to carry out by an ingenious method
of illumination which was concealed by the figures in the foreground, who
were all in shadow. Bright looking boys and girls were standing around,
their fresh faces sharply lighted from below; and there were angels too,
whose own brilliancy grew pale before the divine, whose ethereal bodies
showed dim and dense, and needing other light in the presence of the body
of the divine humanity. By good fortune the infant had fallen asleep in the
loveliest attitude, so that nothing disturbed the contemplation when the eye
rested on the seeming mother, who with infinite grace had lifted off a veil to
reveal her hidden treasure. At this moment the picture seemed to have been
caught, and there to have remained fixed. Physically dazzled, mentally
surprised, the people round appeared to have just moved to turn away their
half-blinded eyes, to be glancing again toward the child with curious
delight, and to be showing more wonder and pleasure than awe and
reverence—although these emotions were not forgotten, and were to be
traced upon the features of some of the older spectators.

But Ottilie's figure, expression, attitude, glance, excelled all which any
painter has ever represented. A man who had true knowledge of art, and had
seen this spectacle, would have been in fear lest any portion of it should
move; he would have doubted whether anything could ever so much please
him again. Unluckily, there was no one present who could comprehend the
whole of this effect. The Architect alone, who, as a tall, slender shepherd,
was looking in from the side over those who were kneeling, enjoyed,
although he was not in the best position for seeing, the fullest pleasure. And
who can describe the mien of the new-made queen of heaven? The purest
humility, the most exquisite feeling of modesty, at the great honor which
had undeservedly been bestowed upon her, with indescribable and
immeasurable happiness, was displayed upon her features, expressing as

much her own personal emotion as that of the character which she was
endeavoring to represent.

Charlotte was delighted with the beautiful figures; but what had most
effect on her was the child. Her eyes filled with tears, and her imagination
presented to her in the liveliest colors the hope that she might soon have
such another darling creature on her own lap.

They had let down the curtain, partly to give the exhibitors some little
rest, partly to make an alteration in the exhibition. The artist had proposed
to himself to transmute the first scene of night and lowliness into a picture
of splendor and glory; and for this purpose had prepared a blaze of light to
fall in from every side, which this interval was required to kindle.

Ottilie, in the semi-theatrical position in which she found herself, had
hitherto felt perfectly at her ease, because, with the exception of Charlotte
and a few members of the household, no one had witnessed this devout
piece of artistic display. She was, therefore, in some degree annoyed when
in the interval she learnt that a stranger had come into the saloon, and had
been warmly received by Charlotte. Who it was no one was able to tell her.
She therefore made up her mind not to produce a disturbance, and to go on
with her character. Candles and lamps blazed out, and she was surrounded
by splendor perfectly infinite. The curtain rose. It was a sight to startle the
spectators. The whole picture was one blaze of light; and instead of the full
depth of shadow, there now were only the colors left remaining, which,
from the skill with which they had been selected, produced a gentle
softening of tone. Looking out under her long eyelashes, Ottilie perceived
the figure of a man sitting by Charlotte. She did not recognize him; but the
voice she fancied was that of the Assistant at the school. A singular emotion
came over her. How many things had happened since she last heard the
voice of him, her kind instructor. Like a flash of forked lightning the stream

of her joys and her sorrow rushed swiftly before her soul, and the question
rose in her heart: Dare you confess, dare you acknowledge it all to him? If
not, how little can you deserve to appear before him under this sainted
form; and how strange must it not seem to him who has only known you as
your natural self to see you now under this disguise? In an instant, swift as
thought, feeling and reflection began to clash and gain within her. Her eyes
filled with tears, while she forced herself to continue to appear as a
motionless figure, and it was a relief, indeed, to her when the child began to
stir—and the artist saw himself compelled to give the sign that the curtain
should fall again.

If the painful feeling of being unable to meet a valued friend had, during
the last few moments, been distressing Ottilie in addition to her other
emotions, she was now in still greater embarrassment. Was she to present
herself to him in this strange disguise? or had she better change her dress?
She did not hesitate—she did the last; and in the interval she endeavored to
collect and to compose herself; nor did she properly recover her self-
possession until at last, in her ordinary costume, she had welcomed the new
visitor.

CHAPTER VII

In so far as the Architect desired the happiness of his kind patronesses, it
was a pleasure to him, now that at last he was obliged to go, to know that he
was leaving them in good society with the estimable Assistant. At the same
time, however, when he thought of their goodness in its relation to himself,
he could not help feeling it a little painful to see his place so soon, and as it
seemed to his modesty, so well, so completely supplied. He had lingered
and lingered, but now he forced himself away; what, after he was gone, he
must endure as he could, at least he could not stay to witness with his own
eyes.

To the great relief of this half-melancholy feeling, the ladies at his
departure made him a present of a waistcoat, upon which he had watched
them both for some time past at work, with a silent envy of the fortunate
unknown, to whom it was by-and-by to belong. Such a present is the most
agreeable which a true-hearted man can receive; for while he thinks of the
unwearied play of the beautiful fingers at the making of it, he cannot help
flattering himself that in so long-sustained a labor the feeling could not
have remained utterly without an interest in its accomplishment.

The ladies had now a new visitor to entertain, for whom they felt a real
regard, and whose stay with them it would be their endeavor to make as
agreeable as they could. There is in all women a peculiar circle of inward
interests, which remain always the same, and from which nothing in the

world can divorce them. In outward social intercourse, on the other hand,
they will gladly and easily allow themselves to take their tone from the
person with whom at the moment they are occupied; and thus by a mixture
of impassiveness and susceptibility, by persisting and by yielding, they
continue to keep the government to themselves, and no man in the
cultivated world can ever take it from them.

The Architect, following at the same time his own fancy and his own
inclination, had been exerting himself and putting out his talents for their
gratification and for the purposes of his friends; and business and
amusement, while he was with them, had been conducted in this spirit, and
directed to the ends which most suited his taste. But now in a short time,
through the presence of the Assistant, quite another sort of life was
commenced. His great gift was to talk well, and to treat in his conversation
of men and human relations, particularly in reference to the cultivation of
young people. Thus arose a very perceptible contrast to the life which had
been going on hitherto, all the more as the Assistant could not entirely
approve of their having interested themselves in such subjects so
exclusively.

Of the impersonated picture which received him on his arrival, he never
said a single word. On the other hand, when they took him to see the church
and the chapel with their new decorations, expecting to please him as much
as they were pleased themselves, he did not hesitate to express a very
contrary opinion about it.

"This mixing up of the holy with the sensuous," he said, "is anything but
pleasing to my taste; I cannot like men to set apart certain special places,
consecrate them, and deck them out, that by so doing they may nourish in
themselves a temper of piety. No ornaments, not even the very simplest,
should disturb in us that sense of the Divine Being which accompanies us

wherever we are, and can consecrate every spot into a temple. What pleases
me is to see a home-service of God held in the saloon where people come
together to eat, where they have their parties, and amuse themselves with
games and dances. The highest, the most excellent in men, has no form; and
one should be cautious how one gives it any form except noble action."

Charlotte, who was already generally acquainted with his mode of
thinking, and, in the short time he had been at the castle, had already probed
it more deeply, found something also which he might do for her in his own
department; and she had her garden-children, whom the Architect had
reviewed shortly before his departure, marshalled up into the great saloon.
In their bright, clean uniforms, with their regular orderly movement, and
their own natural vivacity, they looked exceedingly well. The Assistant
examined them in his own way, and by a variety of questions, and by the
turns which he gave them, soon brought to light the capacities and
dispositions of the children; and without its seeming so, in the space of less
than one hour he had really given them important instruction and assistance.

"How did you manage that?" asked Charlotte, as the children marched
away. "I listened with all my attention. Nothing was brought forward except
things which were quite familiar, and yet I cannot tell the least how I should
begin to bring them to be discussed in so short a time so methodically, with
all this questioning and answering."

"Perhaps," replied the Assistant, "we ought to make a secret of the tricks
of our own handicraft. However, I will not hide from you one very simple
maxim, with the help of which you may do this, and a great deal more than
this. Take any subject, a substance, an idea, whatever you like; keep fast
hold of it; make yourself thoroughly acquainted with it in all its parts, and
then it will be easy for you, in conversation, to find out, with a mass of
children, how much about it has already developed itself in them; what

requires to be stimulated, what to be directly communicated. The answers to
your questions may be as unsatisfactory as they will, they may wander wide
of the mark; if you only take care that your counter-question shall draw
their thoughts and senses inwards again; if you do not allow yourself to be
driven from your own position—the children will at last reflect,
comprehend, learn only what the teacher desires them to learn, and the
subject will be presented to them in the light in which he wishes them to see
it. The greatest mistake which he can make is to allow himself to be run
away with from the subject; not to know how to keep fast to the point with
which he is engaged. Do you try this on your own account the next time the
children come; you will find you will be greatly entertained by it yourself."

"That is very good," said Charlotte. "The right method of teaching is the
reverse, I see, of what we must do in life. In society we must keep the
attention long upon nothing, and in instruction the first commandment is to
permit no dissipation of it."

"Variety, without dissipation, were the best motto for both teaching and
life, if this desirable equipoise were easy to be preserved," said the
Assistant; and he was going on further with the subject, when Charlotte
called out to him to look again at the children, whose merry troop were at
the moment moving across the court. He expressed his satisfaction at seeing
them wearing a uniform. "Men," he said, "should wear a uniform from their
childhood upwards. They have to accustom themselves to work together; to
lose themselves among their equals; to obey in masses, and to work on a
large scale. Every kind of uniform, moreover, generates a military habit of
thought, and a smart, straight-forward carriage. All boys are born soldiers,
whatever you do with them. You have only to watch them at their mock
fights and games, their storming parties and scaling parties."

"On the other hand, you will not blame me," replied Ottilie, "if I do not
insist with my girls on such unity of costume. When I introduce them to
you, I hope to gratify you by a parti-colored mixture."

"I approve of that, entirely," replied the other. "Women should go about
in every sort of variety of dress; each following her own style and her own
likings, that each may learn to feel what sits well upon her and becomes her.
And for a more weighty reason as well—because it is appointed for them to
stand alone all their lives, and work alone."

"That seems to me to be a paradox," answered Charlotte. "Are we then to
be never anything for ourselves?"

"O, yes!" replied the Assistant. "In respect of other women assuredly. But
observe a young lady as a lover, as a bride, as a housewife, as a mother. She
always stands isolated. She is always alone, and will be alone. Even the
most empty-headed woman is in the same case. Each one of them excludes
all others. It is her nature to do so; because of each one of them is required
everything which the entire sex have to do. With a man it is altogether
different. He would make a second man if there were none. But a woman
might live to an eternity, without even so much as thinking of producing a
duplicate of herself."

"One has only to say the truth in a strange way," said Charlotte, "and at
last the strangest thing will seem to be true. We will accept what is good for
us out of your observations, and yet as women we will hold together with
women, and do common work with them too; not to give the other sex too
great an advantage over us. Indeed, you must not take it ill of us, if in future
we come to feel a little malicious satisfaction when our lords and masters
do not get on in the very best way together."

With much care, this wise, sensible person went on to examine more
closely how Ottilie proceeded with her little pupils, and expressed his
marked approbation of it. "You are entirely right," he said, "in directing
these children only to what they can immediately and usefully put in
practice. Cleanliness, for instance, will accustom them to wear their clothes
with pleasure to themselves; and everything is gained if they can be induced
to enter into what they do with cheerfulness and self-reflection."

In other ways he found, to his great satisfaction, that nothing had been
done for outward display; but all was inward, and designed to supply what
was indispensably necessary. "In how few words," he cried, "might the
whole business of education be summed up, if people had but ears to hear!"

"Will you try whether I have any ears?" said Ottilie, smiling.

"Indeed I will," answered he, "only you must not betray me. Educate the
boys to be servants, and the girls to be mothers, and everything is as it
should be."

"To be mothers?" replied Ottilie. "Women would scarcely think that
sufficient. They have to look forward, without being mothers, to going out
into service. And, indeed, our young men think themselves a great deal too
good for servants. One can see easily, in every one of them, that he holds
himself far fitter to be a master."

"And for that reason we should say nothing about it to them," said the
Assistant. "We flatter ourselves on into life; but life flatters not us. How
many men would like to acknowledge at the outset, what at the end they
must acknowledge whether they like it or not? But let us leave these
considerations, which do not concern us here.

"I consider you very fortunate in having been able to go so methodically
to work with your pupils. If your very little ones run about with their dolls,
and stitch together a few petticoats for them; if the elder sisters will then
take care of the younger, and the whole household know how to supply its
own wants, and one member of it help the others, the further step into life
will not then be great, and such a girl will find in her husband what she has
lost in her parents.

"But among the higher ranks the problem is a sorely intricate one. We
have to provide for higher, finer, more delicate relations; especially for such
as arise out of society. We are, therefore, obliged to give our pupils an
outward cultivation. It is indispensable, it is necessary, and it may be really
valuable, if we do not overstep the proper measure in it. Only it is so easy,
while one is proposing to cultivate the children for a wider circle, to drive
them out into the indefinite, without keeping before our eyes the real
requisites of the inner nature. Here lies the problem which more or less
must be either solved or blundered over by all educators.

"Many things, with which we furnish our scholars at the school, do not
please me; because experience tells me of how little service they are likely
to be in after-life. How much is in a little while stripped off; how much at
once committed to oblivion, as soon as the young lady finds herself in the
position of a housewife or a mother!

"In the meantime, since I have devoted myself to this occupation, I
cannot but entertain a devout hope that one day, with the companionship of
some faithful helpmate, I may succeed in cultivating purely in my pupils
that, and that only, which they will require when they pass out into the field
of independent activity and self-reliance; that I may be able to say to
myself, in this sense is their education completed. Another education there
is indeed which will again speedily recommence, and work on well nigh

through all the years of our life—the education which circumstances will
give us, if we do not give it to ourselves."

How true Ottilie felt were these words! What had not a passion, little
dreamed of before, done to educate her in the past year! What trials did she
not see hovering before her if she looked forward only to the next—to the
very next, which was now so near!

It was not without a purpose that the young man had spoken of a
helpmate—of a wife; for with all his diffidence, he could not refrain from
thus remotely hinting at his own wishes. A number of circumstances and
accidents, indeed, combined to induce him on this visit to approach a few
steps toward his aim.

The Lady Superior of the school was advanced in years. She had been
already for some time looking about among her fellow-laborers, male and
female, for some person whom she could take into partnership with herself,
and at last had made proposals to the Assistant, in whom she had the highest
ground for feeling confidence. He was to conduct the business of the school
with herself. He was to work with her in it, as if it was his own; and after
her death, as her heir, to enter upon it as sole proprietor.

The principal thing now seemed to be, that he should find a wife who
would cooperate with him. Ottilie was secretly before his eyes and before
his heart. A number of difficulties suggested themselves, and yet again there
were favorable circumstances on the other side to counterbalance them.
Luciana had left the school; Ottilie could therefore return with the less
difficulty. Of the affair with Edward, some little had transpired. It passed,
however, as many such things do, as a matter of indifference, and this very
circumstance might make it desirable that she should leave the castle. And
yet, perhaps, no decision would have been arrived at, no step would have
been taken, had not an unexpected visit given a special impulse to his

hesitation. The appearance of remarkable people, in any and every circle,
can never be without its effects.

The Count and the Baroness, who often found themselves asked for their
opinion, almost every one being in difficulty about the education of their
children, as to the value of the various schools, had found it desirable to
make themselves particularly acquainted with this one, which was generally
so well spoken of; and under their present circumstances, they were more
easily able to carry on these inquiries in company.

The Baroness, however, had something else in view as well. While she
was last at the castle, she had talked over with Charlotte the whole affair of
Edward and Ottilie. She had insisted again and again that Ottilie must be
sent away. She tried every means to encourage Charlotte to do it, and to
keep her from being frightened by Edward's threats. Several modes of
escape from the difficulty were suggested. Accidentally the school was
mentioned, and the Assistant and his incipient passion, which made the
Baroness more resolved than ever to pay her intended visit there.

She went; she made acquaintance with the Assistant; looked over the
establishment, and spoke of Ottilie. The Count also spoke with much
interest of her, having in his recent visit learnt to know her better. She had
been drawn toward him; indeed, she had felt attracted by him; believing that
she could see, that she could perceive in his solid, substantial conversation,
something to which hitherto she had been an entire stranger. In her
intercourse with Edward, the world had been utterly forgotten; in the
presence of the Count, the world appeared first worth regarding. The
attraction was mutual. The Count conceived a liking for Ottilie; he would
have been glad to have had her for a daughter. Thus a second time, and
worse than the first time, she was in the way of the Baroness. Who knows
what, in times when passions ran hotter than they do now-a-days, this lady

might not have devised against her? As things were, it was enough if she
could get her married, and render her more innocuous for the future to the
peace of mind of married women. She therefore artfully urged the Assistant,
in a delicate, but effective manner, to set out on a little excursion to the
castle; where his plans and his wishes, of which he made no secret to the
lady, he might forthwith take steps to realize.

With the fullest consent of the Superior he started off on his expedition,
and in his heart he nourished good hopes of success. He knew that Ottilie
was not ill-disposed toward him; and although it was true there was some
disproportion of rank between them, yet distinctions of this kind were fast
disappearing in the temper of the time. Moreover, the Baroness had made
him perceive clearly that Ottilie must always remain a poor, portionless
maiden. To be related to a wealthy family, it was said, could be of service to
nobody. For even with the largest property, men have a feeling that it is not
right to deprive of any considerable sum, those who, as standing in a nearer
degree of relationship, appear to have a fuller right to possession; and really
it is a strange thing, that the immense privilege which a man has of
disposing of his property after his death, he so very seldom uses for the
benefit of those whom he loves, only out of regard to established usage
appearing to consider those who would inherit his estate from him,
supposing he made no will at all.

Thus, while on his journey, he grew to feel himself entirely on a level
with Ottilie. A favorable reception raised his hopes. He found Ottilie indeed
not altogether so open with him as usual, but she was considerably matured,
more developed, and, if you please, generally more conversible than he had
known her. She was ready to give him the fullest insight into many things
which were in any way connected with his profession; but when he
attempted to approach his proper object, a certain inward shyness always
held him back.

Once, however, Charlotte gave him an opportunity for saying something.
In Ottilie's presence she said to him, "Well now, you have looked closely
enough into everything which is going forward in my circle. How do you
find Ottilie? You had better say while she is here."

Hereupon the Assistant signified, with a clear perception and composed
expression, how that, in respect of a freer carriage, of an easier manner in
speaking, of a higher insight into the things of the world, which showed
itself more in actions than in words, he found Ottilie altered much for the
better; but that he still believed it might be of serious advantage to her if she
would go back for some little time to the school, in order methodically and
thoroughly to make her own forever what the world was only imparting to
her in fragments and pieces, rather perplexing her than satisfying her, and
often too late to be of service. He did not wish to be prolix about it. Ottilie
herself knew best how much method and connection there was in the style
of instruction out of which, in that case, she would be taken.

Ottilie had nothing to say against this; she could not acknowledge what it
was which these words made her feel, because she was hardly able to
explain it to herself. It seemed to her as if nothing in the world was
disconnected so long as she thought of the one person whom she loved; and
she could not conceive how, without him, anything could be connected at
all.

Charlotte replied to the proposal with a wise kindness. She said that she
herself, as well as Ottilie, had long desired her return to the school. At that
time, however, the presence of so dear a companion and helper had become
indispensable to herself; still she would offer no obstacle at some future
period, if Ottilie continued to wish it, to her going back there for such a
time as would enable her to complete what she had begun, and to make
entirely her own what had been interrupted.

The Assistant listened with delight to this qualified assent. Ottilie did not
venture to say anything against it, although the very thought made her
shudder. Charlotte, on her side, thought only how to gain time. She hoped
that Edward would soon come back and find himself a happy father; then
she was convinced all would go right; and one way or another they would
be able to settle something for Ottilie.

After an important conversation which has furnished matter for after-
reflection to all who have taken part in it, there commonly follows a sort of
pause, which in appearance is like a general embarrassment. They walked
up and down the saloon. The Assistant turned over the leaves of various
books, and came at last on the folio of engravings which had remained
lying there since Luciana's time. As soon as he saw that it contained nothing
but apes, he shut it up again.

It may have been this, however, which gave occasion to a conversation of
which we find traces in Ottilie's diary.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"It is strange how men can have the heart to take such pains with the
pictures of those hideous monkeys. One lowers one's-self sufficiently when
one looks at them merely as animals, but it is really wicked to give way to
the inclination to look for people whom we know behind such masks."

"It is a sure mark of a certain obliquity, to take pleasure in caricatures and
monstrous faces, and pigmies. I have to thank our kind Assistant that I have
never been vexed with natural history; I could never make myself at home
with worms and beetles."

"Just now he acknowledged to me, that it was the same with him. 'Of
nature,' he said, 'we ought to know nothing except what is actually alive

immediately around us. With the trees which blossom and put out leaves
and bear fruit in our own neighborhood, with every shrub which we pass by,
with every blade of grass on which we tread, we stand in a real relation.
They are our genuine compatriots. The birds which hop up and down
among our branches, which sing among our leaves, belong to us; they speak
to us from our childhood upward, and we learn to understand their
language. But let a man ask himself whether or not every strange creature,
torn out of its natural environment, does not at first sight make a sort of
painful impression upon him, which is only deadened by custom. It is a
mark of a motley, dissipated sort of life, to be able to endure monkeys, and
parrots, and black people, about one's self."

"Many times when a certain longing curiosity about these strange objects
has come over me, I have envied the traveler who sees such marvels in
living, everyday connection with other marvels. But he, too, must have
become another man. Palm-trees will not allow a man to wander among
them with impunity; and doubtless his tone of thinking becomes very
different in a land where elephants and tigers are at home."

"The only inquirers into nature whom we care to respect, are such as
know how to describe and to represent to us the strange wonderful things
which they have seen in their proper locality, each in its own especial
element. How I should enjoy once hearing Humboldt talk!"

"A cabinet of natural curiosities we may regard like an Egyptian burying-
place, where the various plant gods and animal gods stand about embalmed.
It may be well enough for a priest-caste to busy itself with such things in a
twilight of mystery. But in general instruction, they have no place or
business; and we must beware of them all the more, because what is nearer
to us, and more valuable, may be so easily thrust aside by them."

"A teacher who can arouse a feeling for one single good action, for one
single good poem, accomplishes more than he who fills our memory with
rows on rows of natural objects, classified with name and form. For what is
the result of all these, except what we know as well without them, that the
human figure preëminently and peculiarly is made in the image and likeness
of God?"

"Individuals may be left to occupy themselves with whatever amuses
them, with whatever gives them pleasure, whatever they think useful; but
'the proper study of mankind is man.'"

CHAPTER VIII

There are but few men who care to occupy themselves with the immediate
past. Either we are forcibly bound up in the present, or we lose ourselves in
the long gone-by, and seek back for what is utterly lost, as if it were
possible to summon it up again, and rehabilitate it. Even in great and
wealthy families who are under large obligations to their ancestors, we
commonly find men thinking more of their grandfathers than their fathers.

Such reflections as these suggested themselves to our Assistant, as, on
one of those beautiful days in which the departing winter is accustomed to
imitate the spring, he had been walking up and down the great old castle
garden, and admiring the tall avenues of the lindens, and the formal walks
and flower-beds which had been laid out by Edward's father. The trees had
thriven admirably, according to the design of him who had planted them,
and now when they ought to have begun to be valued and enjoyed, no one
ever spoke of them. Hardly any one even went near them, and the interest
and the outlay was now directed to the other side, out into the free and the
open.

He remarked upon it to Charlotte on his return; she did not take it
unkindly. "While life is sweeping us forward," she replied, "we fancy that
we are acting out our own impulses; we believe that we choose ourselves
what we will do, and what we will enjoy. But in fact, if we look at it closely,

our actions are no more than the plans and the desires of the time which we
are compelled to carry out."

"No doubt," said the Assistant. "And who is strong enough to withstand
the stream of what is around him? Time passes on, and in it, opinions,
thoughts, prejudices, and interests. If the youth of the son falls in the era of
revolution, we may feel assured that he will have nothing in common with
his father. If the father lived at a time when the desire was to accumulate
property, to secure the possession of it, to narrow and to gather one's-self in,
and to base one's enjoyment in separation from the world, the son will at
once seek to extend himself, to communicate himself to others, to spread
himself over a wide surface, and open out his closed stores."

"Entire periods," replied Charlotte, "resemble this father and son whom
you have been describing. Of the state of things when every little town was
obliged to have its walls and moats, when the castle of the nobleman was
built in a swamp, and the smallest manor-houses were only accessible by a
draw-bridge, we are scarcely able to form a conception. In our days, the
largest cities take down their walls, the moats of the princes' castles are
filled in; cities are no more than great places, and when one travels and sees
all this, one might fancy that universal peace was just established, and the
golden age was before the door. No one feels himself easy in a garden
which does not look like the open country. There must be nothing to remind
him of form and constraint, we choose to be entirely free, and to draw our
breath without sense of confinement. Do you conceive it possible, my
friend, that we can ever return again out of this into another, into our former
condition?"

"Why should we not?" replied the Assistant. "Every condition has its own
burden along with it, the most relaxed as well as the most constrained. The
first presupposes abundance, and leads to extravagance. Let want reappear,

and the spirit of moderation is at once with us again. Men who are obliged
to make use of their space and their soil, will speedily enough raise walls up
round their gardens to be sure of their crops and plants. Out of this will
arise by degrees a new phase of things: the useful will again gain the upper
hand; and even the man of large possessions will feel at last that he must
make the most of all which belongs to him. Believe me, it is quite possible
that your son may become indifferent to all which you have been doing in
the park, and draw in again behind the solemn walls and the tall lindens of
his grandfather."

The secret pleasure which it gave Charlotte to have a son foretold to her,
made her forgive the Assistant his somewhat unfriendly prophecy of how it
might one day fare with her lovely, beautiful park. She therefore answered
without any discomposure: "You and I are not old enough yet to have lived
through very much of these contradictions; and yet when I look back into
my own early youth, when I remember the style of complaints which I used
then to hear from older people, and when I think at the same time of what
the country and the town then were, I have nothing to advance against what
you say. But is there nothing which one can do to remedy this natural
course of things? Are father and son, parents and children, to be always thus
unable to understand each other? You have been so kind as to prophesy a
boy to me. Is it necessary that he must stand in contradiction to his father?
Must he destroy what his parents have erected, instead of completing it,
instead of following on upon the same idea, and elevating it?"

"There is a rational remedy for it," replied the Assistant. "But it is one
which will be but seldom put in practice by men. The father should raise his
son to a joint ownership with himself. He should permit him to plant and to
build; and allow him the same innocent liberty which he allows to himself.
One form of activity may be woven into another, but it cannot be pieced on

to it. A young shoot may be readily and easily grafted with an old stem, to
which no grown branch admits of being fastened."

The Assistant was glad to have had the opportunity, at the moment when
he saw himself obliged to take his leave, of saying something agreeable to
Charlotte, and thus making himself a new link to secure her favor. He had
been already too long absent from home, and yet he could not make up his
mind to return there until after a full conviction that he must allow the
approaching epoch of Charlotte's confinement first to pass by before he
could look for any decision from her in respect to Ottilie. He therefore
accommodated himself to the circumstances, and returned with these
prospects and hopes to the Superior.

Charlotte's confinement was now approaching; she kept more in her own
room. The ladies who had gathered about her were her closest companions.
Ottilie managed all domestic matters, hardly able, however, the while, to
think what she was doing. She had indeed utterly resigned herself; she
desired to continue to exert herself to the extent of her power for Charlotte,
for the child, for Edward. But she could not see how it would be possible
for her. Nothing could save her from utter distraction, except patiently to do
the duty which each day brought with it.

A son was brought happily into the world, and the ladies declared, with
one voice, it was the very image of its father. Only Ottilie, as she wished the
new mother joy, and kissed the child with all her heart, was unable to see
the likeness. Once already Charlotte had felt most painfully the absence of
her husband, when she had to make preparations for her daughter's
marriage. And now the father could not be present at the birth of his son. He
could not have the choosing of the name by which the child was hereafter to
be called.

The first among all Charlotte's friends who came to wish her joy was
Mittler. He had placed expresses ready to bring him news the instant the
event took place. He was admitted to see her, and, scarcely able to conceal
his triumph even before Ottilie, when alone with Charlotte he broke fairly
out with it; and was at once ready with means to remove all anxieties, and
set aside all immediate difficulties. The baptism should not be delayed a
day longer than necessary. The old clergyman, who had one foot already in
the grave, should leave his blessing, to bind together the past and the future.
The child should be called Otto; what name would he bear so fitly as that of
his father and of his father's friend?

It required the peremptory resolution of this man to set aside the
innumerable considerations, arguments, hesitations, difficulties; what this
person knew, and that person knew better; the opinions, up and down, and
backward and forward, which every friend volunteered. It always happens
on such occasions that when one inconvenience is removed, a fresh
inconvenience seems to arise; and in wishing to spare all sides, we
inevitably go wrong on one side or the other.

The letters to friends and relations were all undertaken by Mittler, and
they were to be written and sent off at once. It was highly necessary, he
thought, that the good fortune which he considered so important for the
family, should be known as widely as possible through the ill-natured and
misinterpreting world. For indeed these late entanglements and perplexities
had got abroad among the public, which at all times has a conviction that,
whatever happens, happens only in order that it may have something to talk
about.

The ceremony of the baptism was to be observed with all due honor, but
it was to be as brief and as private as possible. The people came together;
Ottilie and Mittler were to hold the child as sponsors. The old pastor,

supported by the servants of the church, came in with slow steps; the
prayers were offered. The child lay in Ottilie's arms, and as she was looking
affectionately down at it, it opened its eyes and she was not a little startled
when she seemed to see her own eyes looking at her. The likeness would
have surprised any one. Mittler, who next had to receive the child, started as
well; he fancying he saw in the little features a most striking likeness to the
Captain. He had never seen a resemblance so marked.

The infirmity of the good old clergyman had not permitted him to
accompany the ceremony with more than the usual liturgy.

Mittler, however, who was full of his subject, recollected his old
performances when he had been in the ministry, and indeed it was one of
his peculiarities that, on every sort of occasion, he always thought what he
would like to say, and how he would express himself about it.

At this time he was the less able to contain himself, as he was now in the
midst of a circle consisting entirely of well-known friends. He began,
therefore, toward the conclusion of the service, to put himself quietly into
the place of the clergyman; to make cheerful speeches aloud, expressive of
his duty and his hopes as godfather, and to dwell all the longer on the
subject, as he thought he saw in Charlotte's gratified manner that she was
pleased with his doing so.

It altogether escaped the eagerness of the orator, that the good old man
would gladly have sat down; still less did he think that he was on the way to
occasion a more serious evil. After he had described with all his power of
impressiveness the relation in which every person present stood toward the
child, thereby putting Ottilie's composure sorely to the proof, he turned at
last to the old man with the words, "And you, my worthy father, you may
now well say with Simeon, 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in
peace, for mine eyes have seen the savior of this house.'"

He was now in full swing toward a brilliant peroration, when he
perceived the old man to whom he held out the child, first appear a little to
incline toward it, and immediately after to totter and sink backward. Hardly
prevented from falling, he was lifted to a seat; but, notwithstanding the
instant assistance which was rendered, he was found to be dead.

To see thus side by side birth and death, the coffin and the cradle, to see
them and to realize them, to comprehend not with the eye of imagination,
but with the bodily eye, at one moment these fearful opposites, was a hard
trial to the spectators; the harder, the more utterly it had taken them by
surprise. Ottilie alone stood contemplating the slumberer, whose features
still retained their gentle sweet expression, with a kind of envy. The life of
her soul was killed; why should the bodily life any longer drag on in
weariness?

But though Ottilie was frequently led by melancholy incidents which
occurred in the day to thoughts of the past, of separation and of loss, at
night she had strange visions given her to comfort her, which assured her of
the existence of her beloved, and thus strengthened her, and gave her life for
her own. When she laid herself down at night to rest, and was floating
among sweet sensations between sleep and waking, she seemed to be
looking into a clear but softly illuminated space. In this she would see
Edward with the greatest distinctness, and not in the dress in which she had
been accustomed to see him, but in military uniform; never in the same
position, but always in a natural one, and not the least with anything
fantastic about him, either standing or walking, or lying down or riding. The
figure, which was painted with the utmost minuteness, moved readily
before her without any effort of hers, without her willing it or exerting her
imagination to produce it. Frequently she saw him surrounded with
something in motion, which was darker than the bright ground; but the
figures were shadowy, and she could scarcely distinguish them—sometimes

they were like men, sometimes they were like horses, or like trees, or like
mountains. She usually went to sleep in the midst of the apparition, and
when, after a quiet night, she woke again in the morning, she felt refreshed
and comforted; she could say to herself, Edward still lives, and she herself
was still remaining in the closest relation toward him.

CHAPTER IX

The spring was come; it was late, but it therefore burst out more rapidly and
more exhilaratingly than usual. Ottilie now found in the garden the fruits of
her carefulness. Everything shot up and came out in leaf and flower at its
proper time. A number of plants which she had been training up under glass
frames and in hotbeds, now burst forward at once to meet, at last, the
advances of nature; and whatever there was to do, and to take care of, it did
not remain the mere labor of hope which it had been, but brought its reward
in immediate and substantial enjoyment.

There was many a chasm, however, among the finest shoots produced by
Luciana's wild ways, for which she had to console the gardener, and the
symmetry of many a leafy coronet was destroyed. She tried to encourage
him to hope that it would all be soon restored again, but he had too deep a
feeling, and too pure an idea of the nature of his business, for such grounds
of comfort to be of much service to him. Little as the gardener allowed
himself to have his attention dissipated by other tastes and inclinations, he
could the less bear to have the peaceful course interrupted which the plant
follows toward its enduring or its transient perfection. A plant is like a self-
willed man, out of whom we can obtain all which we desire, if we will only
treat him his own way. A calm eye, a silent method, in all seasons of the
year, and at every hour, to do exactly what has then to be done, is required
of no one perhaps more than of a gardener. These qualities the good man

possessed in an eminent degree, and it was on that account that Ottilie liked
so well to work with him; but for some time past he had not found himself
able to exercise his peculiar talent with any pleasure to himself. Whatever
concerned the fruit-gardening or kitchen-gardening, as well as whatever had
in time past been required in the ornamental gardens, he understood
perfectly. One man succeeds in one thing, another in another; he succeeded
in these. In his management of the orangery, of the bulbous flowers, in
budding shoots and growing cuttings from the carnations and auriculas, he
might challenge nature herself. But the new ornamental shrubs and
fashionable flowers remained in a measure strange to him. He had a kind of
shyness of the endless field of botany, which had been lately opening itself,
and the strange names humming about his ears made him cross and ill-
tempered. The orders for flowers which had been made by his lord and lady
in the course of the past year, he considered so much useless waste and
extravagance—all the more, as he saw many valuable plants disappear, and
as he had ceased to stand on the best possible terms with the nursery
gardeners, who, he fancied, had not been serving him honestly.

Consequently, after a number of attempts, he had formed a sort of a plan,
in which Ottilie encouraged him the more readily because its first essential
condition was the return of Edward, whose absence in this, as in many other
matters, every day had to be felt more and more seriously.

Now that the plants were ever striking new roots, and putting out their
shoots, Ottilie felt herself even more fettered to this spot. It was just a year
since she had come there as a stranger, as a mere insignificant creature.
How much had she not gained for herself since that time! but, alas! how
much had she not also since that time lost again! Never had she been so
rich, and never so poor. The feelings of her loss and of her gain alternated
momentarily one with another, chasing each other through her heart; and
she could find no other means to help herself, except always to set to work

again at what lay nearest to her, with such interest and eagerness as she
could command.

That everything which she knew to be dear to Edward received especial
care from her may be supposed. And why should she not hope that he
himself would now soon come back again; and that, when present, he
would show himself grateful for all the care and pains which she had taken
for him in his absence?

But there was also a far different employment which she took upon
herself in his service; she had undertaken the principal charge of the child,
whose immediate attendant it was all the easier for her to be, as they had
determined not to put it into the hands of a nurse, but to bring it up
themselves by hand with milk and water. In the beautiful season it was
much out of doors, enjoying the free air, and Ottilie liked best to take it out
herself, to carry the unconscious sleeping infant among the flowers and
blossoms which should one day smile so brightly on its childhood—among
the young shrubs and plants, which, by their youth, seemed designed to
grow up with the young lord to their after-stature. When she looked about
her, she did not hide from herself to what a high position that child was
born: far and wide, wherever the eye could see, all would one day belong to
him. How desirable, how necessary it must therefore be, that it should grow
up under the eyes of its father and its mother, and renew and strengthen the
union between them!

Ottilie saw all this so clearly that she represented it to herself as
conclusively decided, and for herself, as concerned with it, she never felt at
all. Under this fair heaven, by this bright sunshine, at once it became clear
to her, that her love if it would perfect itself, must become altogether
unselfish; and there were many moments in which she believed it was an
elevation which she had already attained. She only desired the well-being of

her friend. She fancied herself able to resign him, and never to see him any
more, if she could only know that he was happy. The one only
determination which she formed for herself was never to belong to another.

They had taken care that the autumn should be no less brilliant than the
spring. Sun-flowers were there, and all the other plants which are never
tired of blossoming in autumn, and continue boldly on into the cold; asters
especially were sown in the greatest abundance, and scattered about in all
directions to form a starry heaven upon the earth.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"Any good thought which we have read, anything striking which we have
heard, we commonly enter in our diary; but if we would take the trouble, at
the same time, to copy out of our friends' letters the remarkable
observations, the original ideas, the hasty words so pregnant in meaning,
which we might find in them, we should then be rich indeed. We lay aside
letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy them out of
discretion, and so disappears the most beautiful, the most immediate breath
of life, irrecoverably for ourselves and for others. I intend to make amends
in future for such neglect."

"So, then, once more the old story of the year is being repeated over
again. We are come now, thank God, again to its most charming chapter.
The violets and the may-flowers are as its superscriptions and its vignettes.
It always makes a pleasant impression on us when we open again at these
pages in the book of life."

"We find fault with the poor, particularly with the little ones among them,
when they loiter about the streets and beg. Do we not observe that they
begin to work again, as soon as ever there is anything for them to do?
Hardly has nature unfolded her smiling treasures, than the children are at

once upon her track to open out a calling for themselves. None of them begs
any more; they have each a nosegay to offer you; they were out and
gathering it before you had awakened out of your sleep, and the
supplicating face looks as sweetly at you as the present which the hand is
holding out. No person ever looks miserable who feels that he has a right to
make a demand upon you."

"How is it that the year sometimes seems so short, and sometimes is so
long? How is it that it is so short when it is passing, and so long as we look
back over it? When I think of the past (and it never comes so powerfully
over me as in the garden), I feel how the perishing and the enduring work
one upon the other, and there is nothing whose endurance is so brief as not
to leave behind it some trace of itself, something in its own likeness."

"We are able to tolerate the winter. We fancy that we can extend
ourselves more freely when the trees are so spectral, so transparent. They
are nothing, but they conceal nothing; but when once the germs and buds
begin to show, then we become impatient for the full foliage to come out,
for the landscape to put on its body, and the tree to stand before us as a
form."

"Everything which is perfect in its kind must pass out beyond and
transcend its kind. It must be an inimitable something of another and a
higher nature. In many of its tones the nightingale is only a bird; then it
rises up above its class, and seems as if it would teach every feathered
creature what singing really is."

"A life without love, without the presence of the beloved, is but poor
comédie à tiroir. We draw out slide after slide, swiftly tiring of each, and
pushing it back to make haste to the next. Even what we know to be good
and important hangs but wearily together; every step is an end, and every
step is a fresh beginning."

CHAPTER X.

Charlotte meanwhile was well and in good spirits. She was happy in her
beautiful boy, whose fair promising little form every hour was a delight to
both her eyes and heart. In him she found a new link to connect her with the
world and with her property. Her old activity began anew to stir in her
again.

Look which way she would, she saw how much had been done in the
year that was past, and it was a pleasure to her to contemplate it. Enlivened
by the strength of these feelings, she climbed up to the summer-house with
Ottilie and the child, and as she laid the latter down on the little table, as on
the altar of her house, and saw the two seats still vacant, she thought of
gone-by times, and fresh hopes rose out before her for herself and for
Ottilie.

Young ladies, perhaps, look timidly round them at this or that young man,
carrying on a silent examination, whether they would like to have him for a
husband; but whoever has a daughter or a female ward to care for, takes a
wider circle in her survey. And so it fared at this moment with Charlotte, to
whom, as she thought of how they had once sat side by side in that summer-
house, a union did not seem impossible between the Captain and Ottilie. It
had not remained unknown to her, that the plans for the advantageous
marriage, which had been proposed to the Captain, had come to nothing.

Charlotte went on up the cliff, and Ottilie carried the child. A number of
reflections crowded upon the former. Even on the firm land there are
frequent enough ship-wrecks, and the true, wise conduct is to recover
ourselves, and refit our vessel at fast as possible. Is life to be calculated
only by its gains and losses? Who has not made arrangement on
arrangement, and has not seen them broken in pieces? How often does not a
man strike into a road and lose it again! How often are we not turned aside
from one point which we had sharply before our eye, but only to reach
some higher stage. The traveler, to his greatest annoyance, breaks a wheel
upon his journey, and through this unpleasant accident makes some
charming acquaintance, and forms some new connection, which has an
influence on all his life. Destiny grants us our wishes, but in its own way, in
order to give us something beyond our wishes.

Among these and similar reflections they reached the new building on the
hill, where they intended to establish themselves for the summer. The view
all round them was far more beautiful than could have been supposed;
every little obstruction had been removed; all the loveliness of the
landscape, whatever nature, whatever the season of the year had done for it,
came out in its beauty before the eye; and already the young plantations,
which had been made to fill up a few openings, were beginning to look
green, and to form an agreeable connecting link between parts which before
stood separate.

The house itself was nearly habitable; the views, particularly from the
upper rooms, were of the richest variety. The longer you looked round you,
the more beauties you discovered. What magnificent effects would not be
produced here at the different hours of day—by sunlight and by moonlight?
Nothing could be more delightful than to come and live there, and now that
she found all the rough work finished, Charlotte longed to be busy again.
An upholsterer, a tapestry-hanger, a painter, who could lay on the colors

with patterns, and a little gilding, were all which were required, and these
were soon found, and in a short time the building was completed. Kitchen
and cellar stores were quickly laid in; being so far from the castle, it was
necessary to have all essentials provided; and the two ladies with the child
went up and settled there. From this residence, as from a new centre point,
unknown walks opened out to them, and in these high regions the free, fresh
air and the beautiful weather were thoroughly delightful.

Ottilie's favorite walk, sometimes alone, sometimes with the child, was
down below, toward the plane-trees, along a pleasant footpath leading
directly to the point where one of the boats was kept chained in which
people used to go across the water. She often indulged herself in an
expedition on the water, only without the child, as Charlotte was a little
uneasy about it. She never missed, however, paying a daily visit to the
castle garden and the gardener, and going to look with him at his show of
greenhouse plants, which were all out now, enjoying the free air.

At this beautiful season, Charlotte was much pleased to receive a visit
from an English nobleman, who had made acquaintance with Edward
abroad, having met him more than once, and who was now curious to see
the laying out of his park, which he had heard so much admired. He brought
with him a letter of introduction from the Count, and introduced at the same
time a quiet but most agreeable man as his traveling companion. He went
about seeing everything, sometimes with Charlotte and Ottilie, sometimes
with the gardeners and the foresters, often with his friend, and now and then
alone; and they could perceive clearly from his observations that he took an
interest in such matters, and understood them well; indeed, that he had
himself probably executed many such.

Although he was now advanced in life, he entered warmly into
everything which could serve for an ornament to life, or contribute anything

to its importance.

In his presence, the ladies came first properly to enjoy what was around
them. His practised eye received every effect in its freshness, and he found
all the more pleasure in what was before him, as he had not previously
known the place, and was scarcely able to distinguish what man had done
there from what nature had presented to him ready made.

We may even say that through his remarks the park grew and enriched
itself; he was able to anticipate in their fulfilment the promises of the
growing plantations. There was not a spot where there was any effect which
could be either heightened or produced, but what he observed it.

In one place he pointed to a fountain which, if it was cleaned out,
promised to be the most beautiful spot for a picnic party; in another, to a
cave which had only to be enlarged and swept clear of rubbish to form a
desirable seat. A few trees might be cut down, and a view would be opened
from it of some grand masses of rock, towering magnificently against the
sky. He wished the owners joy that so much was still remaining for them to
do, and he besought them not to be in a hurry about it, but to keep for
themselves for years to come the pleasures of shaping and improving.

At the hours which the ladies usually spent alone he was never in the
way, for he was occupied the greatest part of the day in catching such views
in the park as would make good paintings, in a portable camera obscura,
and drawing from them, in order to secure some desirable fruits from his
travels for himself and others. For many years past he had been in the habit
of doing this in all remarkable places which he visited, and had provided
himself by it with a most charming and interesting collection. He showed
the ladies a large portfolio which he had brought with him, and entertained
them with the pictures and with descriptions. And it was a real delight to
them, here in their solitude, to travel so pleasantly over the world, and see

sweep past them, shores and havens, mountains, lakes, and rivers, cities,
castles, and a hundred other localities which have a name in history.

Each of the two ladies had an especial interest in it—Charlotte the more
general interest in whatever was historically remarkable; Ottilie dwelling in
preference on the scenes of which Edward used most to talk—where he
liked best to stay, and which he would most often revisit. Every man has
somewhere, far or near, his peculiar localities which attract him; scenes
which, according to his character, either from first impressions, or from
particular associations, or from habit, have a charm for him beyond all
others.

She, therefore, asked the Earl which, of all these places, pleased him best,
where he would like to settle, and live for himself, if he might choose.
There was more than one lovely spot which he pointed out, with what had
happened to him there to make him love and value it; and the peculiar
accentuated French in which he spoke made it most pleasant to listen to
him.

To the further question, which was his ordinary residence that he properly
considered his home, he replied, without any hesitation, in a manner quite
unexpected by the ladies:

"I have accustomed myself by this time to be at home everywhere, and I
find, after all, that it is much more agreeable to allow others to plant, and
build, and keep house for me. I have no desire to return to my own
possessions, partly on political grounds, but principally because my son, for
whose sake alone it was any pleasure to me to remain and work there—who
will, by-and-by, inherit it, and with whom I hoped to enjoy it—took no
interest in the place at all, but has gone out to India, where, like many other
foolish fellows, he fancies he can make a higher use of his life. He is more
likely to squander it.

"Assuredly we spend far too much labor and outlay in preparation for
life. Instead of beginning at once to make ourselves happy in a moderate
condition, we spread ourselves out wider and wider, only to make ourselves
more and more uncomfortable. Who is there now to enjoy my mansion, my
park, my gardens? Not I, nor any of mine—strangers, visitors, or curious,
restless travelers.

"Even with large means, we are ever but half and half at home, especially
in the country, where we miss many things to which we have become
accustomed in town. The book for which we are most anxious is not to be
had, and just the thing which we most wanted is forgotten. We take to being
domestic, only again to go out of ourselves; if we do not go astray of our
own will and caprice, circumstances, passions, accidents, necessity, and one
does not know what besides, manage it for us."

Little did the Earl imagine how deeply his friend would be touched by
these random observations. It is a danger to which we are all of us exposed
when we venture on general remarks in a society the circumstances of
which we might have supposed were well enough known to us. Such casual
wounds, even from well-meaning, kindly-disposed people, were nothing
new to Charlotte. She so clearly, so thoroughly knew and understood the
world, that it gave her no particular pain if it did happen that through
somebody's thoughtlessness or imprudence she had her attention forced into
this or that unpleasant direction. But it was very different with Ottilie. At
her half-conscious age, at which she rather felt than saw, and at which she
was disposed, indeed was obliged, to turn her eyes away from what she
should not or would not see, Ottilie was thrown by this melancholy
conversation into the most pitiable state. It rudely tore away the pleasant
veil from before her eyes, and it seemed to her as if everything which had
been done all this time for house and court, for park and garden, for all their
wide environs, were utterly in vain, because he to whom it all belonged

could not enjoy it; because he, like their present visitor, had been driven out
to wander up and down in the world—and, indeed, in the most perilous
paths of it—by those who were nearest and dearest to him. She was
accustomed to listen in silence, but on this occasion she sat on in the most
painful condition; which, indeed, was made rather worse than better by
what the stranger went on to say, as he continued with his peculiar,
humorous gravity:

"I think I am now on the right way. I look upon myself steadily as a
traveler, who renounces many things in order to enjoy more. I am
accustomed to change; it has become, indeed, a necessity to me; just as in
the opera, people are always looking out for new and newer decorations,
because there have already been so many. I know very well what I am to
expect from the best hotels, and what from the worst. It may be as good or
it may be as bad as it will, but I nowhere find anything to which I am
accustomed, and in the end it comes to much the same thing whether we
depend for our enjoyment entirely on the regular order of custom, or
entirely on the caprices of accident. I have never had to vex myself now,
because this thing is mislaid, or that thing is lost; because the room in which
I live is uninhabitable, and I must have it repaired; because somebody has
broken my favorite cup, and for a long time nothing tastes well out of any
other. All this I am happily raised above. If the house catches fire about my
ears, my people quietly pack my things up, and we pass away out of the
town in search of other quarters. And considering all these advantages,
when I reckon carefully, I calculate that, by the end of the year, I have not
sacrificed more than it would have cost me to be at home."

In this description Ottilie saw nothing but Edward before her; how he too
was now amidst discomfort and hardship, marching along untrodden roads,
lying out in the fields in danger and want, and in all this insecurity and
hazard growing accustomed to be homeless and friendless, learning to fling

away everything that he might have nothing to lose. Fortunately, the party
separated for a short time. Ottilie escaped to her room, where she could give
way to her tears. No weight of sorrow had ever pressed so heavily upon her
as this clear perception (which she tried, as people usually do, to make still
clearer to herself), that men love to dally with and exaggerate the evils
which circumstances have once begun to inflict upon them.

The state in which Edward was came before her in a light so piteous, so
miserable, that she made up her mind, let it cost her what it would, that she
would do everything in her power to unite him again with Charlotte, and
she herself would go and hide her sorrow and her love in some silent scene,
and beguile the time with such employment as she could find.

Meanwhile the Earl's companion, a quiet, sensible man and a keen
observer, had remarked the new trend in the conversation, and spoke to his
friend about it. The latter knew nothing of the circumstances of the family;
but the other being one of those persons whose principal interest in
traveling lay in gathering up the strange occurrences which arose out of the
natural or artificial relations of society, which were produced by the conflict
of the restraint of law with the violence of the will, of the understanding
with the reason, of passion with prejudice—had some time before made
himself acquainted with the outline of the story, and since he had been in
the family had learnt exactly all that had taken place, and the present
position in which things were standing.

The Earl, of course, was very sorry, but it was not a thing to make him
uneasy. A man must hold his tongue altogether in society if he is never to
find himself in such a position; for not only remarks with meaning in them,
but the most trivial expressions, may happen to clash in an inharmonious
key with the interest of somebody present.

"We will set things right this evening," said he, "and escape from any
general conversation; you shall let them hear one of the many charming
anecdotes with which your portfolio and your memory have enriched
themselves while we have been abroad."

However, with the best intentions, the strangers did not, on this next
occasion, succeed any better in gratifying their friends with unalloyed
entertainment. The Earl's friend told a number of singular stories—some
serious, some amusing, some touching, some terrible—with which he had
roused their attention and strained their interest to the highest tension, and
he thought to conclude with a strange but softer incident, little dreaming
how nearly it would touch his listeners.

THE TWO STRANGE CHILDREN

"Two children of neighboring families, a boy and a girl, of an age which
would suit well for them at some future time to marry, were brought up
together with this agreeable prospect, and the parents on both sides, who
were people of some position in the world, looked forward with pleasure to
their future union.

"It was too soon observed, however, that the purpose seemed likely to
fail; the dispositions of both children promised everything which was good,
but there was an unaccountable antipathy between them. Perhaps they were
too much like each other. Both were thoughtful, clear in their wills, and
firm in their purposes. Each separately was beloved and respected by his or
her companions, but whenever they were together they were always
antagonists. Forming separate plans for themselves, they only met mutually
to cross and thwart each other; never emulating each other in pursuit of one
aim, but always fighting for a single object. Good-natured and amiable
everywhere else, they were spiteful and even malicious whenever they
came in contact.

"This singular relation first showed itself in their childish games, and it
continued with their advancing years. The boys used to play at soldiers,
divide into parties, and give each other battle, and the fierce haughty young
lady set herself at once at the head of one of the armies, and fought against
the other with such animosity and bitterness that the latter would have been
put to a shameful flight, except for the desperate bravery of her own
particular rival, who at last disarmed his antagonist and took her prisoner;
and even then she defended herself with so much fury that to save his eyes
from being torn out, and at the same time not to injure his enemy, he had
been obliged to take off his silk handkerchief and tie her hands with it
behind her back.

"This she never forgave him: she made so many attempts, she laid so
many plans to injure him, that the parents, who had been long watching
these singular passions, came to a mutual understanding and resolved to
separate these two hostile creatures, and sacrifice their favorite hopes.

"The boy shot rapidly forward in the new situation in which he was
placed. He mastered every subject which he was taught. His friends and his
own inclination chose the army for his profession, and everywhere, let him
be where he would, he was looked up to and beloved. His disposition
seemed formed to labor for the well-being and the pleasure of others; and
he himself, without being clearly conscious of it, was in himself happy at
having got rid of the only antagonist which nature had assigned to him.

"The girl, on the other hand, became at once an altered creature. Her
growing age, the progress of her education, above all, her own inward
feelings, drew her away from the boisterous games with boys in which she
had hitherto delighted. Altogether she seemed to want something; there was
nothing anywhere about her which could deserve to excite her hatred, and
she had never found any one whom she could think worthy of her love.

"A young man, somewhat older than her previous neighbor-antagonist, of
rank, property, and consequence, beloved in society, and much sought after
by women, bestowed his affections upon her. It was the first time that
friend, lover, or servant had displayed any interest in her. The preference
which he showed for her above others who were older, more cultivated, and
of more brilliant pretensions than herself, was naturally gratifying; the
constancy of his attention, which was never obtrusive, his standing by her
faithfully through a number of unpleasant incidents, his quiet suit, which
was declared indeed to her parents, but which, as she was still very young,
he did not press, only asking to be allowed to hope—all this engaged him to
her, and custom and the assumption in the world that the thing was already
settled carried her along with it. She had so often been called his bride that
at last she began to consider herself so, and neither she nor any one else
ever thought any further trial could be necessary before she exchanged rings
with the person who for so long a time had passed for her bridegroom.

"The peaceful course which the affair had all along followed was not at
all precipitated by the betrothal. Things were allowed to go on both sides
just as they were; they were happy in being together, and they could enjoy
to the end the fair season of the year as the spring of their future more
serious life.

"The absent youth had meanwhile grown up into everything which was
most admirable. He had obtained a well-deserved rank in his profession,
and came home on leave to visit his family. Toward his fair neighbor he
found himself again in a natural but singular position. For some time past
she had been nourishing in herself such affectionate family feelings as
suited her position as a bride; she was in harmony with everything about
her; she believed that she was happy, and in a certain sense she was so.
Now first for a long time something again stood in her way. It was not to be
hated—she had become incapable of hatred. Indeed the childish hatred,

which had in fact been nothing more than an obscure recognition of inward
worth, expressed itself now in a happy astonishment, in pleasure at meeting,
in ready acknowledgments, in a half willing, half unwilling, and yet
irresistible attraction; and all this was mutual. Their long separation gave
occasion for longer conversations; even their old childish foolishness
served, now that they had grown wiser, to amuse them as they looked back;
and they felt as if at least they were bound to make good their petulant
hatred by friendliness and attention to each other—as if their first violent
injustice to each other ought not to be left without open acknowledgment.

"On his side it all remained in a sensible, desirable moderation. His
position, his circumstances, his efforts, his ambition, found him so abundant
an occupation, that the friendliness of this pretty bride he received as a very
thank-worthy present; but without, therefore, even so much as thinking of
her in connection with himself, or entertaining the slightest jealousy of the
bridegroom, with whom he stood on the best possible terms.

"With her, however, it was altogether different. She seemed to herself as
if she had awakened out of a dream. Her fightings with her young neighbor
had been the beginnings of an affection; and this violent antagonism was no
more than an equally violent innate passion for him, first showing under the
form of opposition. She could remember nothing else than that she had
always loved him. She laughed over her martial encounter with him with
weapons in her hand; she dwelt upon the delight of her feelings when he
disarmed her. She imagined that it had given her the greatest happiness
when he bound her: and whatever she had done afterward to injure him, or
to vex him, presented itself to her as only an innocent means of attracting
his attention. She cursed their separation. She bewailed the sleepy state into
which she had fallen. She execrated the insidious lazy routine which had
betrayed her into accepting so insignificant a bridegroom. She was

transformed—doubly transformed, forward or backward, whichever way
we like to take it.

"She kept her feelings entirely to herself; but if any one could have
divined them and shared them with her, he could not have blamed her: for
indeed the bridegroom could not sustain a comparison with the other as
soon as they were seen together. If a sort of regard to the one could not be
refused, the other excited the fullest trust and confidence. If one made an
agreeable acquaintance, the other we should desire for a companion; and in
extraordinary cases, where higher demands might have to be made on them,
the bridegroom was a person to be utterly despaired of, while the other
would give the feeling of perfect security.

"There is a peculiar innate tact in women which discovers to them
differences of this kind; and they have cause as well as occasion to cultivate
it.

"The more the fair bride was nourishing all these feelings in secret, the
less opportunity there was for any one to speak a word which could tell in
favor of her bridegroom, to remind her of what her duty and their relative
position advised and commanded—indeed, what an unalterable necessity
seemed now irrevocably to require; the poor heart gave itself up entirely to
its passion.

"On one side she was bound inextricably to the bridegroom by the world,
by her family, and by her own promise; on the other, the ambitious young
man made no secret of what he was thinking and planning for himself,
conducting himself toward her no more than a kind but not at all a tender
brother, and speaking of his departure as immediately impending; and now
it seemed as if her early childish spirit woke up again in her with all its
spleen and violence, and was preparing itself in its distemper, on this higher
stage of life, to work more effectively and destructively. She determined

that she would die to punish the once hated; and now so passionately loved,
youth for his want of interest in her; and as she could not possess himself, at
least she would wed herself for ever to his imagination and to his
repentance. Her dead image should cling to him, and he should never be
free from it. He should never cease to reproach himself for not having
understood, not examined, not valued her feelings toward him.

"This singular insanity accompanied her wherever she went. She kept it
concealed under all sorts of forms; and although people thought her very
odd, no one was observant enough or clever enough to discover the real
inward reason.

"In the meantime, friends, relations, acquaintances had exhausted
themselves in contrivances for pleasure parties. Scarcely a day passed but
something new and unexpected was set on foot. There was hardly a pretty
spot in the country round which had not been decked out and prepared for
the reception of some merry party. And now our young visitor, before
departing, wished to do his part as well, and invited the young couple, with
a small family circle, to an expedition on the water. They went on board a
large beautiful vessel dressed out in all its colors—one of the yachts which
had a small saloon and a cabin or two besides, and are intended to carry
with them upon the water the comfort and conveniences of land.

"They set out upon the broad river with music playing. The party had
collected in the cabin, below deck, during the heat of the day, and were
amusing themselves with games. Their young host, who could never remain
without doing something, had taken charge of the helm to relieve the old
master of the vessel, and the latter had lain down and was fast asleep. It was
a moment when the steerer required all his circumspectness, as the vessel
was nearing a spot where two islands narrowed the channel of the river,
while shallow banks of shingle stretching off, first on one side and then on

the other, made the navigation difficult and dangerous. Prudent and sharp-
sighted as he was, he thought for a moment that it would be better to wake
the master; but he felt confident in himself, and he thought he would
venture and make straight for the narrows. At this moment his fair enemy
appeared upon deck with a wreath of flowers in her hair. 'Take this to
remember me by,' she cried out. She took it off and threw it at the steerer.
'Don't disturb me,' he answered quickly, as he caught the wreath; 'I require
all my powers and all my attention now.' 'You will never be disturbed by me
any more,' she cried; 'you will never see me again.' As she spoke, she
rushed to the forward part of the vessel, and from thence she sprang into the
water. Voice upon voice called out, 'Save her, save her, she is sinking!' He
was in the most terrible difficulty. In the confusion the old shipmaster woke,
and tried to catch the rudder, which the young man bade him take. But there
was no time to change hands. The vessel stranded; and at the same moment,
flinging off the heaviest of his upper garments, he sprang into the water and
swam toward his beautiful enemy. The water is a friendly element to a man
who is at home in it, and who knows how to deal with it; it buoyed him up,
and acknowledged the strong swimmer as its master. He soon overtook the
beautiful girl, who had been swept away before him; he caught hold of her,
raised her and supported her, and both of them were carried violently down
by the current, till the shoals and islands were left far behind, and the river
was again open and running smoothly. He now began to collect himself;
they had passed the first immediate danger, in which he had been obliged to
act mechanically without time to think; he raised his head as high as he
could to look about him and then swam with all his might to a low bushy
point which ran out conveniently into the stream. There he brought his fair
burden to dry land, but he could find no signs of life in her; he was in
despair, when he caught sight of a trodden path leading among the bushes.
Again he caught her up in his arms, hurried forward, and presently reached
a solitary cottage. There he found kind, good people—a young married

couple; the misfortunes and the dangers explained themselves instantly;
every remedy he could think of was instantly applied; a bright fire blazed
up; woolen blankets were spread on a bed, counterpane, cloaks, skins,
whatever there was at hand which would serve for warmth, were heaped
over her as fast as possible. The desire to save life overpowered, for the
present, every other consideration. Nothing was left undone to bring back to
life the beautiful, half-torpid, naked body. It succeeded; she opened her
eyes! her friend was before her; she threw her heavenly arms about his
neck. In this position she remained for a time; and then a stream of tears
burst out and completed her recovery. 'Will you forsake me,' she cried, 'now
when I find you again thus?' 'Never,' he answered, 'never,' hardly knowing
what he said or did. 'Only consider yourself,' she added; 'take care of
yourself, for your sake and for mine.'

"She now began to collect herself, and for the first time recollected the
state in which she was; she could not be ashamed before her darling, before
her preserver; but she gladly allowed him to go, that he might take care of
himself; for the clothes which he still wore were wet and dripping.

"Their young hosts considered what could be done. The husband offered
the young man, and the wife offered the fair lady, the dresses in which they
had been married, which were hanging up in full perfection, and sufficient
for a complete suit, inside and out, for two people. In a short time our pair
of adventurers were not only equipped, but in full costume. They looked
most charming, gazed at each other, when they met, with admiration, and
then with infinite affection, half laughing at the same time at the quaintness
of their appearance, they fell into each other's arms.

"The power of youth and the quickening spirit of love in a few moments
completely restored them; and there was nothing wanting but music to have
set them both off dancing.

"To have found themselves brought from the water on dry land, from
death into life, from the circle of their families into a wilderness, from
despair into rapture, from indifference to affection and to love, all in a
moment: the head was not strong enough to bear it; it must either burst, or
go distracted; or if so distressing an alternative were to be escaped, the heart
must put out all its efforts.

"Lost wholly in each other, it was long before they recollected the alarm
and anxiety of those who had been left behind; and they themselves, indeed,
could not well think, without alarm and anxiety, how they were again to
encounter them. 'Shall we run away? shall we hide ourselves?' asked the
young man. 'We will remain together,' she said, as she clung about his neck.

"The peasant having heard them say that a party was aground on the
shoal, had hurried down, without stopping to ask another question, to the
shore. When he arrived there, he saw the vessel coming safely down the
stream. After much labor it had been got off; and they were now going on in
uncertainty, hoping to find their lost ones again somewhere. The peasant
shouted and made signs to them, and at last caught the attention of those on
board; then he ran to a spot where there was a convenient place for landing,
and went on signalling and shouting till the vessel's head was turned toward
the shore; and what a scene there was for them when they landed. The
parents of the two betrothed first pressed on the banks; the poor loving
bridegroom had almost lost his senses. They had scarcely learnt that their
dear children had been saved, when in their strange disguise the latter came
forward out of the bushes to meet them. No one recognized them till they
were come quite close. 'Whom do I see?' cried the mothers. 'What do I see?'
cried the fathers. The preserved ones flung themselves on the ground before
them. 'Your children,' they called out; 'a pair.' 'Forgive us!' cried the maiden.
'Give us your blessing!' cried the young man. 'Give us your blessing!' they

cried both, as all the world stood still in wonder. 'Your blessing!' was
repeated the third time; and who would have been able to refuse it?"

CHAPTER XI

The narrator made a pause, or rather he had already finished his story,
before he observed the emotion into which Charlotte had been thrown by it.
She got up, uttered some sort of an apology, and left the room. To her it was
a well-known history. The principal incident in it had really taken place
with the Captain and a neighbor of her own; not exactly, indeed, as the
Englishman had related it. But the main features of it were the same. It had
only been more finished off and elaborated in its details, as stories of that
kind always are when they have passed first through the lips of the
multitude, and then through the fancy of a clever and imaginative narrator;
the result of the process being usually to leave everything and nothing as it
was.

Ottilie followed Charlotte, as the two friends begged her to do; and then
it was the Earl's turn to remark, that perhaps they had made a second
mistake, and that the subject of the story had been well known to, or was in
some way connected with, the family. "We must take care," he added, "that
we do no more mischief here; we seem to bring little good to our
entertainers for all the kindness and hospitality which they have shown us;
we will make some excuse for ourselves, and then take our leave."

"I must confess," answered his companion, "that there is something else
which still holds me here, which I should be very sorry to leave the house
without seeing cleared up or in some way explained. You were too busy

yourself yesterday when we were in the park with the camera, in looking
for spots where you could make your sketches, to have observed anything
else which was passing. You left the broad walk, you remember, and went
to a sequestered place on the side of the lake. There was a fine view of the
opposite shore which you wished to take. Well, Ottilie, who was with us,
got up to follow; and then proposed that she and I should find our way to
you in the boat. I got in with her, and was delighted with the skill of my fair
conductress. I assured her that never since I had been in Switzerland, where
the young ladies so often fill the place of the boatmen, had I been so
pleasantly ferried over the water. At the same time I could not help asking
her why she had shown such an objection to going the way which you had
gone, along the little by-path. I had observed her shrink from it with a sort
of painful uneasiness. She was not at all offended. 'If you will promise not
to laugh at me,' she answered, 'I will tell you as much as I know about it;
but to myself it is a mystery which I cannot explain. There is a particular
spot in that path which I never pass without a strange shiver passing over
me, which I do not remember ever feeling anywhere else, and which I
cannot the least understand. But I shrink from exposing myself to the
sensation, because it is followed immediately after by a pain on the left side
of my head, from which at other times I suffer severely.' We landed. Ottilie
was engaged with you, and I took the opportunity of examining the spot,
which she pointed out to me as we went by on the water. I was not a little
surprised to find there distinct traces of coal in sufficient quantities to
convince me that at a short distance below the surface there must be a
considerable bed of it.

"Pardon me, my Lord; I see you smile; and I know very well that you
have no faith in these things about which I am so eager, and that it is only
your sense and your kindness which enable you to tolerate me. However, it
is impossible for me to leave this place without trying on that beautiful
creature an experiment with the pendulum."

The Earl, whenever these matters came to be spoken of, never failed to
repeat the same objections to them over and over again; and his friend
endured them all quietly and patiently, remaining firm, nevertheless, to his
own opinion, and holding to his own wishes. He, too, again repeated that
there was no reason, because the experiment did not succeed with every
one, that they should give them up, as if there was nothing in them but
fancy. They should be examined into all the more earnestly and
scrupulously; and there was no doubt that the result would be the discovery
of a number of affinities of inorganic creatures for one another, and of
organic creatures for them, and again for each other, which at present were
unknown to us.

He had already spread out his apparatus of gold rings, marcasites, and
other metallic substances, a pretty little box of which he always carried
about with himself; and he suspended a piece of metal by a string over
another piece, which he placed upon the table. "Now, my Lord," he said,
"you may take what pleasure you please (I can see in your face what you
are feeling), at perceiving that nothing will set itself in motion with me, or
for me. But my operation is no more than a pretense; when the ladies come
back, they will be curious to know what strange work we are about."

The ladies returned. Charlotte understood at once what was going on. "I
have heard much of these things," she said; "but I never saw the effect
myself. You have everything ready there. Let me try whether I can succeed
in producing anything."

She took the thread in her hand, and as she was perfectly serious, she
held it steady, and without any agitation. Not the slightest motion, however,
could be detected. Ottilie was then called upon to try. She held the
pendulum still more quietly and unconsciously over the plate on the table.
But in a moment the swinging piece of metal began to stir with a distinct

rotary action, and turned as they moved the position of the plate, first to one
side and then to the other; now in circles, now in ellipses; or else describing
a series of straight lines; doing all the Earl's friend could expect, and far
exceeding, indeed, all his expectations.

The Earl himself was a little staggered; but the other could never be
satisfied, from delight and curiosity, and begged for the experiment again
and again with all sorts of variations. Ottilie was good-natured enough to
gratify him; till at last she was obliged to desire to be allowed to go, as her
headache had come on again. In further admiration and even rapture, he
assured her with enthusiasm that he would cure her forever of her disorder,
if she would only trust herself to his remedies. For a moment they did not
know what he meant; but Charlotte, who comprehended immediately after,
declined his well-meant offer, not liking to have introduced and practised
about her a thing of which she had always had the strongest apprehensions.

The strangers were gone, and notwithstanding their having been the
inadvertent cause of strange and painful emotions, left the wish behind
them, that this meeting might not be the last. Charlotte now made use of the
beautiful weather to return visits in the neighborhood, which, indeed, gave
her work enough to do, seeing that the whole country round, some from a
real interest, some merely from custom, had been most attentive in calling
to inquire after her. At home her delight was the sight of the child, and
really it well deserved all love and interest. People, saw in it a wonderful,
indeed a miraculous child; the brightest, sunniest little face; a fine, well-
proportioned body, strong and healthy; and what surprised them more, the
double resemblance, which became more and more conspicuous. In figure
and in the features of the face, it was like the Captain; the eyes every day it
was less easy to distinguish from the eyes of Ottilie.